by Jane Feather
“You are quite ravishing, my love,” he murmured in some awe, taking her hand as she stepped from the last stair. “That gown is quite magnificent.”
“Yes, but Rutherford, the price!” she said, unable to contain her horror one more minute. “You would not credit the figure.”
“I would,” he answered, smiling. “But it is not a subject I wish to discuss now or at any time. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, my lord. It shall be as you command, my lord,” Merrie returned in dulcet accents, sweeping into a deep curtsy. “You must forgive the provincial values which betray me into such vulgar concerns.”
He shook his head, refusing the mischievous invitation. Meredith looked a little disappointed, then laughed. “I must return the compliment, Rutherford. You are looking most elegant.”
In fact, the word hardly did justice to the waisted black coat with long tails, the white waistcoat, the black silk knee britches and striped stockings, the single diamond pin in the folds of his cravat. His hair was brushed à la Brutus, and Merrie decided that she had never seen him looking more distinguished.
“I hope you realize what an honor this is, Merrie?” Bella said, adjusting the folds of a handsome silver mantilla. “Damian finds evenings such as we are about to pass the greatest form of insipidity. He would much rather be at White’s or blowing a cloud at Cribb’s parlor.”
“You do me an injustice, Bella,” her brother protested mildly. “Only a fool would pass up the opportunity to witness Merrie’s first experience of this particular form of entertainment.”
“You think I will not enjoy it?”
“I think you will find it lacking in excitement,” he replied with a twinkle. “Let us go. It wants but half an hour to eleven and I would not care to be turned away for arriving one minute after the hour—not after the pains we have all taken to create a suitably devastating impression.”
That evening, Meredith realized fully what it meant to be under the auspices of the Keighleys. The patronesses of Almack’s all came forward when they arrived, greeting Damian with expressions of gratified surprise. Princess Esterhazy, who struck Merrie as a small round ball of vivacity, welcomed her kindly; Countess Lieven stared at her with an intensity that Merrie decided deserved no other name but rudeness. To Damian’s amusement and Bella’s slight alarm, she returned the stare. A chilly smile eventually touched the lips of the lady considered to be the best dressed and most knowledgeable in London.
“Do you waltz, Lady Blake?” she inquired. Meredith, well taught by Bella, knew that a lady did not waltz at Almack’s unless given permission to do so by one of the patronesses. “I do not find it objectionable, Countess,” she responded. “It is not, however, a dance much practiced in Cornwall.”
This reference to the provinces caused the countess a momentary flicker of pain, but she said with great condescension that she would later present Meredith to Lord Molyneux, reputed to be one of the most accomplished waltzers.
“And you are not, I suppose?” Meredith said to Damian as he partnered her in the boulanger.
“You will do better with Molyneux,” he promised.
“You should appear to best advantage on this first occasion.”
Watching from the sidelines throughout the remainder of the evening, he was in no doubt that she did so. “Damian, I prophesy that your protegée will be all the rage.” Mr. George Bryan Brummell, having spent twenty minutes in the company of the lady, came over to his friend where he stood, leaning negligently against the wall.
“You have just ensured that, George,” replied Rutherford with a quirk of his lips. “Twenty minutes in your exclusive company will be more than sufficient to see her established.”
“I like her,” the beau said directly. “I do not think she cared a jot for my attentions.”
“Probably not.” Damian grinned. “But I am grateful, my friend, even if the lady is not.”
“Lady Blake, permit me to introduce the Honorable Gerald Devereux.” Lady Jersey beamed in her customary friendly fashion as she presented a lean, dark-haired young man, impeccably, if not spectacularly, attired in dove-gray silk. “He would like to solicit your hand for the cotillion.”
“Mr. Devereux.” Merrie smiled, giving him her hand. “I am honored.” She had lost count of the number of partners presented to her this evening, names and features were beginning to blur in a rather pleasant haze. Gerald Devereux, however, had a most distinguished countenance. Cerulean-blue eyes pierced his surroundings from beneath sharply arched, black eyebrows, but most startling was the thick silver streak in the black locks brushed artlessly back from a broad white brow. It lent a most romantic air to an otherwise ascetic mien, and Meredith found herself both attracted and intrigued.
“The honor is all mine, your ladyship.” He bowed low over the hand in his. “I hardly dared to hope for your partnership this evening, so well attended have you been.”
“How gallant, sir,” Merrie murmured as Sally Jersey, with a pleased little laugh, hurried off to spread elsewhere the cheerful nonstop chatter that had earned her the name of “Silence” amongst the ton.
“So, Lady Blake, are you suitably impressed by this bastion of proper social conduct, this bulwark of the ton?”
Merrie chuckled. “How could I not be, sir? My knees quake at the very thought of receiving a frown from one of the illustrious patronesses. And the refreshments—the epitome of elegance!”
Gerald Devereux laughed. He had not expected his sally to meet with quite such a mischievously forthright response. Since tea, orgeat, and lemonade accompanied by cakes and bread and butter could only be described as meager, he correctly surmised that his partner was indulging in a little sarcasm at the expense of one of society’s gods—a most definitely daring venture for a newcomer who could be made or broken on this her first official appearance.
“Have I shocked you, Mr. Devereux?” Meredith inquired after executing a particularly complicated figure.
“Not at all, ma’am,” he made haste to reassure her. “Surprised, perhaps, but most pleasantly so.”
“I may be making my debut, sir,” Meredith said, “but I am not a young chit in her first Season and cannot, I fear, behave in a suitably wide-eyed and impressionable fashion.”
“Indeed not,” Devereux agreed with a gravity belied by the admiring amusement in the blue eyes.
Meredith’s dimples peeped. Such obvious admiration was very pleasant, she discovered. “I see we understand each other, sir.”
“I most fervently hope we may further our understanding,” her partner declared with an enthusiasm that Meredith found wholly satisfying.
“Merrie seems to be amusing herself,” Bella observed to her brother as they went down the same set as Meredith and Devereux.
“Yes,” Damian concurred drily. “Unless I much mistake the matter, she is flirting quite shamelessly with Devereux.”
“Do you mind?” Arabella looked up at him a little anxiously but was instantly reassured by his smile.
“Not in the least, Bella. It is simply a talent I had not known she possessed. I daresay there are many others waiting to be discovered.”
The subscription ball at Almack’s was followed the next day by the small party given by Lady Beaumont for her guest. Meredith was hard-pressed to see how an occasion for which over two hundred invitations had been issued could be called small. From dawn till dinner time, the house was in an uproar, and Meredith, having narrowly avoided several disastrous collisions with intent servants laboring under burdens of silver, linen, and floral arrangements, followed Bella’s example and retreated to her boudoir. It was mid afternoon when a footman brought the message that Lord Rutherford was below stairs, desirous of having speech with her ladyship.
Merrie found him in the crimson saloon, the only receiving room in the house, it would seem, to be untouched by the bustle. On the way, she paused to look through the open front door where men in leather aprons were erecting an awning to the street and o
thers were unrolling a red carpet.
“I cannot help feeling this is an unconscionable amount of fuss for a country cousin,” she remarked, closing the door of the saloon behind her.
“Have you not realized yet that Bella will seize any excuse to give a party?” Damian teased, holding open his arms.
“Thank you, sir. I am quite put in my place.” She moved with dignified hauteur to the sofa, ignoring the welcoming arms. It was not a choice she was permitted though, and she managed only the faintest squawk of protest as he spun her around and then collapsed, laughing, against his chest.
It was quite some minutes before Rutherford was able to reach the object of his visit. “I have a present for you,” he said, drawing a flat, velvet box from his pocket. “No, do not say anything,” he cautioned, seeing her about to make the protest he had been expecting. “Bella has told me how you will wear your hair tonight. You will accept this to please me.”
Merrie opened the box. An opera comb of platinum, studded with seed pearls and tiny diamonds, lay on the satin lining. She looked at it for long minutes as that damnable Cornish pride warred with the loving desire to accept the gift of love. He would not oblige her to accept this as part of their contract, yet, if she refused it, Meredith knew he would be deeply wounded.
“It is beautiful,” she said softly. “I will wear it with the utmost pleasure.” Wear, but not accept, she thought. When it is time for this to be over, I will return the loan.
Damian did not hear the qualifying word, heard only the words of acceptance with a surge of relief at how easily it had been accomplished. He kissed her hungrily. “Tomorrow, my love, we will go to Highgate. I grow desperate at times, watching you flirt and cajole and play with those wicked eyes, and I cannot declare to the world that you are mine.”
A cold finger touched between Merrie’s shoulder blades. Sometimes, he still talked as if he did not understand that it was only a game they played, a game made even more precious by its temporal nature.
She was afforded little time to dwell on this unease when the evening began. Thirty people sat down to dinner at eight o’clock and Meredith found herself the guest of honor in spite of her inclination to retire into the background. She wore a dress of Pomona green crape over a white satin half-slip. Tiny puff sleeves of lace threaded with seed pearls complemented Rutherford’s gift set behind the elaborate knot of hair on the crown of her head. Nan had brushed her side curls until they shone, burnished by the candlelight. For one delicious instant, Merrie contemplated the reactions of Lady Patience Barrat and her cronies if they could see the downtrodden widow at this moment. Then she thought of her brothers. Theo, at least, would approve wholeheartedly of his sister’s transformation.
Meredith’s hand had been solicited for almost every dance by a constant stream of callers to Cavendish Square in the days preceding the ball. She stood up for the first dance with the Marquis of Beaumont as was right and proper, but the waltz that followed was Rutherford’s. “You are every inch as accomplished a dancer as Lord Molyneux,” Meredith declared, a note of reproof in her voice. “Why do you dislike it so?”
“Curiously, I find that I do not,” he returned, imperceptibly increasing the pressure of his hand on her back. “But then I have never before found a partner I could tolerate.”
“But you cannot possibly now ignore the claims of all the fair damsels who are regarding me with such open envy.” Merrie lifted her face to give him a smile brimming with mischief. “Having set a precedent, sir, you must continue. No one will believe you to be a reluctant or poor dancer any longer.”
“Marry me,” he said involuntarily, breaking his resolve not to bring up the subject until this way of life had become second nature to her.
“Do not spoil everything,” she whispered. “I had thought we had agreed.”
“To spoil things was not my intention,” her partner said drily. “You are become quite flushed. Let us go onto the balcony for some air.”
The balcony was a grandiose term for the narrow ledge built outside each one of the long windows of the ballroom. Low iron railings fenced in the tiny space where Meredith stepped, breathing deeply of the chilly night air. Damian partially closed the double windows behind them as he stood beside her, hidden from the ballroom by the heavy brocade curtains veiling the window.
“I do beg your pardon for bringing up a subject you find so repugnant,” said Rutherford with ill-concealed sarcasm.
Meredith gripped the iron railing, heedless of the dirt transferred to her long white satin gloves. “How many times must I tell you that it will not do? I am not made to be a duchess, Damian. I am an adventuress, a smuggler, my birth is paltry, my fortune nonexistent. The only things I possess in any quantity are debts and brothers.”
“In the past month,” he said with quiet emphasis, “you have taken the town by storm. You are considered beautiful, accomplished, wellborn—”
“And rich!” She interrupted fiercely. “What does it matter that I should be considered all of those things when you and I know that they are not true?”
“What society believes, my dear girl, is always the truth. Have you not realized that fact yet? Nothing else will ever be believed of you even if you hired a town crier to proclaim from the rooftops what you consider to be the truth.”
The words sank in, bringing with them the final pieces of the puzzle. “I see,” she said slowly. “That being the case then, I need not worry that you would commit social suicide by marrying an indigent, law-breaking widow since, as far as society is concerned, you would not be doing so.” He did not respond and she turned in the confined space to face him. “You are as conniving and as full of duplicity as I am myself.”
“True enough. But it is a perfectly respectable tactic to turn one’s opponent’s weapons against him.”
“It is underhanded!” Merrie declared.
Damian laughed softly and tilted her chin. “You cannot blame me, love, for adopting whatever strategy seems necessary to achieve my object. You would do so yourself.”
A gleam came into the sloe eyes. “Will do so, my lord. I give you fair warning.”
“Just what is going through that pretty, but excessively devious, little head, now?” he demanded uneasily.
“Why, nothing.” The slim white shoulders lifted in a careless shrug. “You issued a challenge, sir. I am merely telling you that I accept it. Perhaps we should return to the ballroom. We may be considered cousins, but rules of propriety still apply, do they not?”
That well-remembered crisp crackle was in her voice, and Damian’s heart sank as his sense of unease increased. He held the rich curtains aside for her, ran his finger up the slender column of her neck as she passed him. Her skin, as always, rippled beneath his touch, and he felt that inevitable quiver run through the taut body. Angry with him she may be, the emotion did nothing to lessen her physical response to his caress.
He could derive only small comfort from this knowledge, however, as he watched her go off with a radiant smile on the arm of Gerald Devereux. She seemed to sparkle as lustrously as the great crystal chandelier whose hundreds of candles illuminated the ballroom, and Devereux quite obviously basked in that luminous warmth.
“I beg you will pardon my impertinence, ma’am, but I have the distinct impression that something has angered you.” Gerald handed Merrie a glass of lemonade, taking up his place by her chair where she sat fanning herself vigorously after the exertions of the dance.
She looked at him in surprise not a little tinged with guilt. “I must have been lacking in manners, Mr. Devereux, to have given you such an impression.”
“No—no, not at all,” he protested. “I should never have mentioned it, but—forgive me—there is something about the way your eyes are sparkling that indicates an emotion other than pure enjoyment.”
“You are remarkably perspicacious.” She smiled wryly. “I have, perhaps, been a little out of temper, but I am quite restored to good humor now, I assure you.”
“Indeed you were not!” Her eyes widened in horror. “Now, you have made me feel most dreadfully guilty.”
“A thousand pardons, Lady Blake! That was never my intention.” His voice dropped slightly. “I would only ensure your pleasure and happiness.”
Meredith felt a small prickle of discomfort at the serious note, the intensity of the blue eyes bent upon her face. The light flirtatious veneer that she enjoyed with Gerald Devereux seemed suddenly to have been drawn aside, revealing something rather more purposeful. It was with a measure of relief that she greeted Viscount Allenby, coming at that moment to claim her hand for the quadrille.
For the remainder of the evening she danced every dance, seemingly indefatigable. Gerald Devereux partnered her several times but, to her relief, behaved with his usual amusing charm and light touch as if that moment of intensity had been a figment of her imagination. Meredith decided that it had been. Her imagination, after all, had a rich diet these days; it would be no wonder if it suffered from indigestion once in a while.
Damian found her smilingly polite, prepared to talk only the merest commonplace on the few occasions he could get close enough to her for speech. It was all very splendid that his plans should have succeeded so well, he reflected, finding his own hand relegated to a country dance where the need to concentrate on the figure made serious conversation impossible, but his success seemed somewhat Pyrrhic when his attempt to take her into supper met with a pretty apology as Meredith accepted the rival claim of the Marquis of Wolvey.
Much to Arabella’s gratification, the band of the Scots Greys played at supper, Rutherford being good friends with their colonel, but she found her pleasure somewhat diminished when she saw her brother’s moody expression. It was one she recognized all too well although it had been absent recently, but, when she asked him in a whisper what was amiss, he smiled, shrugged, denied that anything had occurred to disturb his serenity and reverted to his customary, charming sunny temper. In fact, Lord Rutherford was ruefully regretting the impulse that had led him to betray his intentions. Knowing better than to underestimate his mistress, he felt a considerable sense of foreboding when he sought his bed in the first faint flush of dawn.
