A Lady in Love

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  No sensation had ever been so delightful as that of Lord Reyne's fingers upon her ankle. Yet, that had been nothing. In the course of the dance, he lightly clasped her waist with one arm to him, and held her shoulders with both hands to step forward and back in time to the music. Looking up at his face from the vicinity of his shoulder, Sarah thought he was more wonderful than ever, though his eyes did not meet hers. They were too busy flicking little glances at the other men's feet.

  Bowing, he sent her down the line. She wondered if he would miss her. Plodding past man after man, Sarah did not smile until she reached him again.

  “You have always lived in Brandeton?” he asked.

  “All of my life, Lord Reyne. Where do you live?”

  “I have a house in Essex. And another in Middlesex. Did you enjoy Leamington Spa?” Briefly, he dropped his gaze to her heated face, only to look away once more to attend to the steps.

  “No.” Before she could explain her bluntness, it was time to proceed again down the line. For a moment, she had to concentrate on catching the correct next pair of hands. It shouldn't be hard for him to understand that city pursuits were unimportant to her. He rode like a man used to the country, and he certainly shot like one, which is to say he lifted his gun to nothing he did not see clearly.

  Looking back, she stumbled when Lord Reyne put his hands on another lady's shoulders. Never mind that it was Calpurnia Grissom, never mind that his next partner was at the age of spots, Sarah watched each girl, waiting for a smile to light Lord Reyne's face. It was not the polite smile she minded, for she had one now affixed to her own lips. She feared to see that brief radiance of humor, like the swift flash of a shooting star, which had once been focused on herself.

  As she returned to him the final time, he asked with a little bow, “Sandal all right?”

  “Yes, it's fine, so long as I do not wiggle my toes.”

  “Please don't disturb them. We were lucky to get away with that antic once; I would not dare try it again. I know what I would think if I saw someone down there.” His voice was low.

  “I imagine,” she said, “anybody who lived here would think it was Harold or Harcourt. They'd often hide in the ha-ha so they could leap up and frighten whoever came to look at the view.” She added sadly, “They don't do it any more.”

  “Of course, I'd forgotten I was in the country.” He bowed a last time, for the music reached its final bar. Sarah frowned at him as she rose from her curtsy. It had been a very strange thing to say.

  Before she could speak, however, he waved at someone over her head. “Miss East,” he said, “I wonder if you would forgive me our next dance.”

  “If you like.” Did he perhaps wish to return with her to the garden, misty though it was? Sarah would ask nothing more of life, if it offered her once again such bliss.

  “I'm certain Mr. Atwood will be pleased to take my place.”

  Sarah dipped into another curtsy, feeling she had not strength to rise. He had obviously found her so dull and clumsy that even the thought of standing up for the rest of the set was monumentally tedious. So he'd scraped her off onto this Atwood, a man without even the sense to be sure of his target before he fired. That memory seemed to be in the unhappy gentleman's mind.

  “I ... I hope you are well. Miss East,” Atwood stammered. “Reyne told me you were unhurt. I can't tell you how that relieved my mind. If I had thought ... I don't know what I'd have done.”

  “Pray don't concern yourself further.” She saw Lord Reyne disappear in the direction of the card room Lady Phelps offered as a foil to the dancing.

  Mr. Atwood was a new departure in partners. He had an infinite variety of apologies at the ready for any occasion. It was a good thing he did, for if he did not offer the wrong hand, he was stepping on the wrong foot, usually someone else's. Sarah was only too glad to retire to the edge of the room after this exercise and gratefully accepted Mr. Atwood's offer of punch.

  Harmonia came to sit beside her. “Will you introduce me to your partner?” she asked without preamble.

  “Mr. Atwood?”

  “Of course. You did say I could have any of your swains that pleased me.”

  “But Mr. Atwood!”

  “Oh, I quite admire him. More than any of the other gentleman Harvey has up. I thought that first night at dinner that he was exactly the sort of man who would suit me.” Seeing how her friend goggled, Harmonia continued, with a slight blush, “I think he looks like a lost lamb.”

  Just then, Mr. Atwood returned, his glove quite sodden from the punch that had spilled from the glass he held. “Oh, dear,” Harmonia said, standing up. “Let me help you.”

  “I don't know how it came to happen.” Looking at Sarah, his hand shook uncontrollably. The rest of the punch, bright red and sticky, shot out over Sarah. Leaping to her feet, she began to brush ineffectually at the clinging liquid. Mr. Atwood, all but weeping, repeated his apologies.

  Accepting Harmonia's handkerchief, Sarah looked up to find the ballroom quite silent, as her neighbors twisted their necks to observe her. Even the seated musicians stood up for a better view. She knew she turned a brighter crimson than the stain, blooming now like fat roses against her shoulder and breast.

  “Sarah, my dear?” said a gentle voice.

  “Oh, Mother! Look what happened!” Sarah just knew that in one more moment, Lord Reyne would be bound to look out from the card room. It was that kind of an evening.

  “If Harmonia will see to this gentleman, I will do my best by Sarah.” The kind eyes turned upon Mr. Atwood, still incoherently expressing his regrets.

  Harmonia said decidedly, “Yes, I will. Come along, Mr. Atwood. Smithers is certain to have another pair of gloves and then we can have our dance.”

  “I'm sorry, Miss Phelps. We were supposed to dance?”

  “Oh, yes. I've lost my card, but I'm willing to wager your name was down for the next gavotte.”

  As Sarah left the ballroom, following her mother, she was prey to a strange suspicion. Hearing laughter, she wondered if it was at her expense. Though she feared to look about her, she felt as if a thousand fingers pointed at her back, while faces grew red with stifled mirth. Sarah increased her pace. There was a chance Lord Reyne might see her, and she could not have borne it if he'd laughed too.

  In Harmonia's room, Mrs. East shook her head. “I can do nothing with this stain now. It's soaked right through. I'm afraid you won't be able to go back down for the rest of the dancing. Do you want to come home with Father and me?”

  Sarah almost said yes. If she left, she'd not have to face any laughter. But, on the other hand, she'd not see Lord Reyne at breakfast. She might not see him for a week. “Oh, no. Mother. I'd like to stay. I was growing tired, anyway. I shall get into my nightclothes and wait for the other girls to come up. Harmonia was telling me about this wonderful new novel she has. I'll read that until they come.”

  Her mother helped her unfasten the white muslin gown. Looking at the dress as Mrs. East folded it, Sarah asked, “You don't think it's ruined, do you. Mother?”

  “I shouldn't think so. Molly and I will get it out, or, if we must, we shall dye it. I've long had a fancy to see you in red, my love. With your hair and skin, I always thought you'd look well in it.”

  “But Aunt says only white is suitable for young girls. I don't think it flatters me, though. The brunette girls, like Harmonia, look very well in it. I'm too pale already. Though I should love a red gown. With gold slippers, I think.”

  Mrs. East did not widen her eyes at this sudden interest in clothes, though she could not resist a gentle pry. “I thought Harcourt looked very well tonight.”

  “No better than Harold, so far as I could see.” Sarah curled up in the window seat, her bare feet covered by the hem of her nightdress.

  “Oh, yes, Harold grows very handsome. My, when I think what scamps they were as children.”

  “Sometimes they are still childish, I think. It's just as well Harvey came first.”


  Mrs. East had achieved nothing. She was even less certain which Phelps boy Sarah admired. It was even within the realm of the possible that the eldest brother would now be her choice. Reluctantly, she realized it might be none of them, which meant her daughter would settle in a strange place, perhaps miles away from her home. The house had been so empty while Sarah was away in Leamington Spa and the boys at sea. Mrs. East sighed.

  “Anything wrong. Mother?”

  “Oh, no, my dear. I'm a trifle weary. If I can lever your father loose from his cards, I think we'll go home, too. With you up here, the dancing will seem very dull. You've improved so much. I shall have to write Aunt Whitsun and tell her how you shone tonight. And, there's the matter of your Season. She wants to sponsor you then, too.”

  “Must I have one, Mother? Leamington Spa was so slow.”

  “I think you'll find London very different. The theaters, and concerts, and all the fine fashionable folk. I loved every moment of my time there.”

  “Very well, if I must. But you come too, Mother. I hated leaving you before. If you come, we can buy lots of new books for Father, and dresses for us, and you can go to parties and the theater every night. Or at least every other night. Each in turn. We shall have such good times. And you know Aunt would be so pleased. She says she never sees you. Oh, please do come.”

  “I would, my love. But to leave your father for so long ...”

  “How long is a Season?”

  “At least three months. April, May, and most of June.”

  “Three months! But that's twice as long as before. Promise you'll try to come for a few weeks.”

  “I should like to see your come-out. I will try. We have a long time to plan it. Six months at least. Now, I'd best go down. I'll tell Lady Phelps where you are, so she doesn't think you departed without thanking her. Sleep well tonight, my love.” Mrs. East bent and kissed Sarah's cheek.

  The novel was not so thrilling as Harmonia had promised. Sarah found her eyes turning more to the window beside her than to the page. Finally, tired of propping up the thick volume, she put it down beside her and blew out the candle.

  Instantly, the silver-shadowed darkness of the misty evening filled the room. Sarah leaned her head against the cool pane and dreamed a tale of her own. This was a tower and she a princess. Somewhere beyond her enchanted window, dragons prowled. Never fear, the prince was bound to come along at any moment.

  Behind her, the doorknob rattled. Though she could still hear the laughter of the guests, the small clock on the mantle had chimed twelve o'clock none too long ago. The knob rattled again, and a solid thud sounded against the panels. Assuming one of the girls who were also to stay the night had come up, Sarah unfolded her legs and went to the door.

  “Enter,” she said, as a princess should, sweeping it open. Then she gasped and fumbled for the open throat of her nightdress. The figure on the other side of the threshold was far too broad to be anything female.

  His name escaped her, though she knew she'd been introduced by one of the twins. He was as surprised to see her as she was to see him. “Why are you in my room?'’ he asked thickly.

  “This is Miss Phelps’ room.”

  “No, it isn't.” He shook his head and an admonishing finger. His small eyes were reddened.

  Suddenly to Sarah's senses came a waft of alcohol. There'd been none in the punch; they must have been serving it to the card players. Both her brothers and the Phelps twins had dabbled with liquor in boyhood. Sarah had learned from them that it was useless to argue with someone who'd been drinking. “Good-night.” Stepping back, she tried to close the door.

  The man stiff-armed it open. “Prove it to you,” he said, stumbling in.

  “No, you can't ...”

  “Dark?” He looked about him, then at her. The light from the hall was sufficient to show her, gleaming in her white night attire. Sarah bit her lip in sudden fear.

  “Pretty girl, pretty girl.” He reached out and gave her cheek a pat. Then, as though that had been a last effort anyone could reasonably expect him to make, he fell down. The noise was thunderous, though not so hard to explain as the immediate snores that began to issue from his open mouth.

  “Sir, sir?” she said, kneeling beside him. Shaking him did nothing but increase the loudness of the noises. Closing her eyes, Sarah wished him away with all her strength. But the rasping breaths went on. From the mantle, the little china clock sang the quarter-hour. Soon, the other girls must come up. What would they say, finding a man stretched out on the carpet? Sarah almost hoped they would come up at once. Together, they might be able to move him to his own room, as she never could alone.

  If only she had not been here! Sarah understood about compromising situations. Aunt Whitsun had described several to her, with warnings about the unhappy fate of any girl caught in such a coil as this. “Fortune-hunters often entrap a girl of means in this way. To be alone with a man in a bedroom, especially at night, is a scandal that can only be hushed up by an immediate marriage.”

  Sarah did not want to be married to the drunken fellow on the floor, no matter that she now recalled him as the second son of the Duke of Brae. She'd hoped to have more of a conversation with her affianced groom than a squabble about whose room she was in. At least he found her pretty, though he was not to her taste. He had not Lord Reyne's height for one thing, nor dark hair, nor eyes the color of a deep lost lake. Sarah dared not imagine what Lord Reyne would think if he saw her now.

  Well, she thought, standing up, the first thing to do is to get some light. Then, perhaps I can awaken him. Surely, if I shake him extra hard ...

  He couldn't be harder to wake than her brother Sam. No one could be harder to wake than Sam.

  Taking up the candle from beside the window seat, she maneuvered around the prone gentleman. With a glance left and right in the hall, Sarah stepped out to catch a flame from a nearby sconce. Footsteps approached from the staircase. She blew the candle out once more and faded back into the bedroom. Swallowing down a huge lump she assumed was her heart, Sarah watched until two gentlemen passed. Fortunately, her unwelcome visitor had flopped over onto his side, silencing himself.

  “Damn fine lot of women they have in this backwater. Did you meet the blonde?”

  “Indeed, I did. Lord lumme, what a beauty! I hoped for a dance, but she seemed to have faded away.”

  Wondering who they were talking of, Sarah waited until she heard their doors close. Then, once more, she snuck out into the hall to hold the taper to the flame.

  “Miss East?”

  Sarah jumped at the voice and the candle fell to the ground. A man's foot stepped on the wick before the long Axminster carpet caught. “Lord Reyne?” She shot a glance into the bedroom. “I did not hear you.”

  “Forgive me for startling you. My sisters complain I walk far too softly. They tell me I should whistle more.” He eyed the candle. “Once again, I am unable to come to your rescue.”

  “Oh! Never mind.” Sarah dipped and snatched it up. “I took off ... that is ... good-night.” She wanted to stand there and look at him for an hour. He'd smiled the moment she'd turned. Perhaps that meant that he did not think her as foolish as her escapade tonight had made her feel.

  At that moment, however, the Hallelujah Chorus broke out again with full crescendo. “What in the name of—Miss East, what have you in your room?”

  “I ... that is ... he just ...”

  Alaric's brows drew together as he listened. “The only thing I've ever heard to compare with it is the growling of hungry bears. Miss East, have you a bear in your room?”

  “Oh, I wish I did.”

  If having one man in her room made for scandal, Sarah reflected, what on earth did two cause? She couldn't possibly marry them both; that would be illegal. Besides, she did not care for the idea of trapping any man into matrimony, but if she must, she would prefer her husband to be Lord Reyne. But the portly fellow on the floor had come first. She could only hope he was married already.
>
  “What am I to do with him?” Sarah asked.

  Looking down at the prone Lord Dudley, a smile tugged at the earl's lips. Seeing it, Sarah relaxed. He said, “I don't suppose there's a chance you could simply exchange rooms with him. I doubt, with so many guests, anyone will remember which room originally belonged to which person.”

  “That is an excellent plan, except ...”

  “Yes, Miss East?”

  “This is Harmonia's room, and I'm afraid she would know.”

  Alaric chuckled. “I suppose she would. Have you tried to rouse him?”

  “I went to light the candle first.”

  The amused expression with which he'd been regarding the snoring man now changed to disdain. It did not lessen when the sleeper snorted and began his song anew, though, blessedly, on a. softer note. The earl asked, “You had retired, then?”

  “No, I was reading.”

  “Without a candle?”

  “I ... I had put it out.”

  Now he frowned at her, as well. His eyes traveled slowly over Sarah, taking in her loosened hair, pouring like melted gold over her shoulders, and her heightened color. He said with a twisted mouth, “Do you often read without light. Miss East? Or did your friend here suggest the two of you would agree better without a candle?”

  “I don't understand. I had put out the candle because the book was ... I couldn't see out the window with it burning. He knocked. I thought it was Jessica or Harmonia and opened the door. Lord Dudley fell in and started making that noise. Can't we do something before anyone else comes?”

  “Well, at any rate, he is of no use to you in his condition. I quite sympathize with your wish to be shut of him. Now, the question is: how to remove him?” Alaric crossed his arms on his chest and prodded the sleeping gentleman with an inquisitive toe. There was no response. “Is there water in that jug?”

  Sarah picked it up. “It's half full.”

  “Pitch it over him.”

  Swinging it backwards, she paused at the last moment. “I can't. How could I explain such a wet carpet?”