by Carola Dunn
She was eager to tell Lady Emma about her afternoon. Remembering how disapproving Philip had been when she rushed in with her news, she paused in the doorway to make sure her chaperon was alone. She heard Philip’s dry voice and was glad she had hesitated.
“Ever since she came to you, our lives have been full of turmoil. I only hope that whatever happens next does not turn her Season into an utter disaster.”
Softly she withdrew. Tears stung her eyes as she trailed up the stairs to her chamber. She dashed them away. She would not allow the wretched man to overset her. It was ridiculous that one person should be able to confuse her so, swinging her emotions from friendship and gratitude to fury and chagrin. She had to admit that it hurt her to be at outs with him.
Lady Emma, coming up to change for dinner, knocked on her door. To judge by the placidity of her expression, she did not take Philip’s warning seriously.
“Did you have a pleasant time with Miss Witherington? I must tell you what came of your aunt’s visit to my mother. Philip was unable to resist boasting about it.”
“Boasting?
“It seems your aunt was sadly dismayed by the size of the ballroom.” She explained Philip’s solution and went on, “He was disgracefully pleased with himself. And he confessed to having developed quite a tendre for Miss Polly Larkin. She reminds him of his late mother.”
Alison did not know what to say. As she changed her dress, she puzzled over the words she had overheard. Perhaps he had been joking, as he must have been when he said he was fond of Aunt Polly. It was often difficult to tell when he was serious. Now she would have to be grateful to him again. Drat the man!
* * * *
The day of the ball arrived at last. From the moment they met at the breakfast table, Lady Emma poured a stream of reminders into Alison’ s ears.
“Never dance with the same gentleman more than twice. That is your only good reason for refusing a request if you are not already engaged. Unless the gentleman is obviously foxed, of course. Return to me between sets, or if that should be difficult, to Mama or Bella, or Lady Witherington. Remember that though we do not hope for Almack’s, the patronesses can ruin you with a word. Sally Jersey has a sharp tongue and Mrs. Drummond-Burrell is shockingly high in the instep. I need not tell you, I feel sure, not to be tongue-tied, but for heaven’s sake, Alison, do not talk of your aunts.”
By the time Carter carefully placed the ball gown over her head, under Lady Emma’s watchful eye, Alison was decidedly nervous. She would never remember all the rules. It was comforting to know that as well as her chaperon, Philip would be there to advise her.
She must stop thinking of him as Philip or one of these days she would forget to address him as Mr. Trevelyan.
There was a tap at the door. Carter answered it and a moment later returned with two posies: pink rosebuds from Lord Fane and lilies of the valley from Mr. Trevelyan. Alison was in an agony of indecision.
“What shall I do?” she cried. She held up the delicate spray of lilies of the valley against the white satin and silver net of her gown, then raised them to her nose and breathed deeply of the sweet fragrance. “They both must have been grown in a greenhouse. These go much better with my dress, but it is excessively flattering of Lord Fane to send roses and I should hate to offend him.”
“A fearful dilemma,” Lady Emma agreed, amused. “While you are trying to decide, I shall dress.”
Alison went with her and Carter to her dressing-room. Lady Emma’s ball gown was an elegant creation of sea-green satin with a lace overdress like white sea foam. She had been wearing more youthful colours recently and, watching Carter arrange her fair hair in ringlets, Alison was amazed at how young and pretty her chaperon looked.
“I hope you mean to dance tonight,’ she said impulsively.
“Why yes, I believe I shall, if any kind gentleman should ask me. It would not do in general, but Mama is in some sort your sponsor tonight. Have you yet decided the vexing question of which flowers to carry?”
Alison was relieved of the necessity of choosing when Henry carried up a third nosegay, of white rosebuds.
“It is from Lord Edgehill,” she gasped, reading the card. “How very kind of your papa. I had best take these, had I not? Neither Lord Fane nor Mr. Trevelyan can be hurt then, since Lord Edgehill is such a venerable gentleman.”
“Very true.” Lady Emma sniffed the roses she too had received from her father, then set them down and picked up another posy, one of two already on her dressing-table.
Alison wondered whom the favoured blooms were from but decided it would be impertinent to ask.
The flowers reminded her of Aunt Polly, and she could not help worrying lest the terriers had decided to dig up the garden and destroy the decorations for the ballroom. As soon as they reached the Edgehills’ house, she asked the countess if the daffodils had arrived safely.
“Come and see,” said her ladyship, leading the way. “It was most extraordinary,” she added to her daughter. “The flowers were brought by a troop of ragamuffins, and one of them had the gall to ask to see the room where Miss Alison would be dancing! Of course Jeffries said no, and twenty minutes later one of the footmen caught them peering in through the windows! He chased them off and nothing seems to be missing.’’
Alison was glad the boys had managed to peek at the ballroom. The elegant splendour of gilt-and-crystal chandeliers illuminated a rustic bower. Spring greenery was massed around the dais and wreathed the walls, while here and there slender vases of daffodils and narcissus added a touch of delicate beauty.
“Most original,” Lady Emma approved.
Before she had time to admire the scene properly, Alison was whisked out again and found herself part of a receiving line headed by the earl and countess. She lost count of the number of times she curtsied to matrons in feathers and diamonds, gentlemen elegant in black and white or foppishly arrayed in brighter hues. Swarms of young ladies in pastels eyed her with curiosity, some friendly, some condescending, some shy.
All these fashionable people had gathered in her honour, she realized with a sense of shock. She, Alison Larkin of Great Ormond Street, was actually making her debut in Society.
It was a great relief to see Fanny Witherington, who winked at her and whispered, “Is it a frightful ordeal? I shall be going through the agony tomorrow.”
At last Philip Trevelyan appeared, an equally welcome sight. He smiled down at her.
“Tonight we have the elf, not the leprechaun. Enchanting! I hope you have not forgot my dance?”
“Of course not, sir. Thank you so much for the flowers.”
“Those are Lord Fane’s, I take it.”
She was glad to be able to deny his assumption. “No, he sent pink roses. Yours were quite the prettiest, but these are from Lord Edgehill, you see.”
Before he could respond, the person behind him interrupted in a deep, lazy voice. “Would that I might have had the honour of having my offering rejected in favour of our worthy host’s.”
Alison looked up into the admiring eves of a dark, handsome gentleman she recognized.
“Lord Kilmore, Alison.” said Lady Emma. “Allow me to present my protégé, Kilmore: Miss Alison Larkin.”
He bowed deeply, but moved on without another word. Alison’s eyes followed him even as she curtsied to a plump matron who reminded her of Aunt Cleo. Kilmore was dressed in the standard black swallow-tail coat, white shirt with starched white cravat, black skin-tight inexpressibles. Even his waistcoat was nothing out of the ordinary, a modest grey-and-brown striped silk. Yet he wore the ensemble with a dashing air that made him stand out in the crowd.
She hoped, very much, that he would ask her to dance.
Lord Fane was before her, the light of displeasure in his eyes as he noted the colour of her roses.
“I had hoped, Miss Larkin, that you might wear my flowers.” His voice was stiff.
“Would that I might have done so, my lord. These were given me by Lord Edgehil
l, and Lady Emma advised me to carry them.”
He was mollified. “Very proper. Perhaps you will be so kind as to grant me the second set, as well as the supper dance?”
“I shall look forward to it, sir.”
There was a pause in the flow of arrivals, and Lady Emma was in consultation with her parents. As Lord Fane moved towards the ballroom, she turned to Alison.
“Mama and I must wait here a little longer, but Papa will take you in now to start the dancing. Off you go and enjoy yourself. Oh, one thing I nearly forgot—remember you must not stand up for the waltzes.”
A group of guests was advancing on them and Lord Edgehill led her off before she could protest. She was not to waltz? But Philip had engaged her for the waltz. As she took her place with the earl at the head of the first set, as she went through the figures of the cotillion, she wondered what to do.
She had been anticipating with great pleasure waltzing with Philip again. He was a very proper gentleman; surely he would not have asked her if it was truly a terrible thing to do. Perhaps Lady Emma was being overcautious.
By the time Lord Edgehill handed her to Lord Fane, Alison had resolved to stand up for the waltz with Mr. Trevelyan whatever the consequences.
The country dance with Lord Fane left her with leisure to look about her. She spotted Philip dancing with a redheaded young lady—well, she did not wish to be uncharitable, but really, the poor girl’s hair was positively carroty. She saw Lord Kilmore, who appeared to be watching her as he stood at the side of the room chatting to another gentleman. He even made a slight inclination of the head in her direction. She felt a hint of warmth in her cheeks and looked away.
Lady Emma was in the set next to hers, partnered by her older brother, Lord Gilchrist, whom Alison had met once. Fanny was a little farther down with a gentleman Alison did not know. She exchanged a quick smile with her friend as Lord Fane offered his arm for the promenade.
The dance over, his lordship led her to Lady Edgehill’s side, since Lady Emma was at the far end of the room. Robert Gilchrist, in perfectly normal evening dress instead of his poetical garb, was standing beside his mother. Alison had not seen him since the disastrous occasion of the poetry reading, and was not sure whether she had been forgiven.
He greeted her without apparent resentment. “My dance next, I collect, Miss Larkin.”
Surprised, she looked at her card, which she had not yet had occasion to peruse. Mr. Gilchrist’s name was written there in a hand suspiciously like his sister Emma’s.
“A family precaution,” the countess put in, “though in your case, my dear, quite unnecessary, I feel sure.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Alison said. “But are you sure you do not mind, sir? I owe you an apology, I fear, since the last time we met.”
“Think nothing of it, ma’am. That wretched sonnet did need polishing. Luttrell warned me the particular line that set you off would not do for romantic poetry.”
“Have you polished it?” she asked eagerly.
“Lord no, I’m not dabbling in verse any longer. As a matter of fact, I’ve taken up the flute. Splendid instrument, it is.”
Disappointed to have lost her chance of a poem in her honour, Alison listened indulgently to his exposition of the wonders of music.
“Dashed if it ain’t a good thing you laughed at me,” he told her as he led her onto the floor. “Otherwise Bella might not have taken it into her head to play that evening and I never would have discovered that music is my true vocation.”
Mr. Gilchrist was about the same age as Lord Fane, but his boyish enthusiasm made him seem much younger. Alison enjoyed dancing with him.
He was escorting her back to his mother when a lilting voice brought him to a halt. “Bob, me old friend, be a good fellow and introduce me to the lady.”
Alison turned, and found herself staring into a pair of laughing eyes as blue as her own.
CHAPTER NINE
“Neil, you did come after all!” Mr. Gilchrist appeared pleased. “Miss Larkin, allow me to present my friend Lord Deverill.”
Alison felt as if she were looking into a sort of peculiar distorting mirror. Besides the merry blue eyes, the tall, slim young gentleman bowing over her hand had curly hair and features only sufficiently different from her own to make his face distinctly masculine.
Deverill had been her mother’s maiden name.
“How do you do, my lord,” she said faintly, wondering if it would be a horrid faux pas to enquire into the relationship.
“Sure and you must be a relative, Miss Larkin.” Lord Deverill was frankly staring. “If you aren’t the spit and image of me sister Eileen!”
“Are you by any chance Viscount Deverill of Ballycarrick, sir? Then I believe we must be cousins.”
“The prettiest colleen in the room and she’s me own cousin,” marvelled his lordship with an engaging grin.
Mr. Gilchrist was looking from one to the other in amazement. “Dashed if you ain’t like as two peas,” he said. “I wonder that I never noticed it. I told you you’d enjoy my mother’s ball, Neil, even if you ain’t in the petticoat line. Coming to the card room?”
“What and leave me long lost relation? Never a bit, me boyo. You’ll stand up with me for the next dance, cousin?”
“Oh yes, please! At least, I expect you ought to ask Lady Emma.” She looked around but her chaperon was nowhere near.
“That’s all right,’’ Mr. Gilchrist assured her, “since he’s a relative. I’ll tell Emma.’’
As she and Lord Deverill joined a set, Alison was aware that they were attracting curious glances. The resemblance must be obvious and soon everyone would know that she had a cousin who was a viscount.
She quickly forgot that pleasure in the enjoyment of his company. They talked and laughed, somehow managing to keep their places in the dance with an occasional hint from the others in the set. Cousin Neil, as he asked her to call him, had a lively gaiety that perfectly complemented her own spirits. By the time the dance ended she felt she had known him for years.
“I must make you known to Lady Emma,” she said firmly, tugging at his arm as they made their way off the floor. “I believe I saw her over by the orchestra.”
“Have mercy, Cousin Alison, don’t be thrusting me head into your dragon’s mouth.”
“She is not a dragon. She’s young and pretty and excessively amiable. Besides, I must go to her and you cannot abandon me here.”
He heaved an exaggerated sigh and followed meekly.
Alison became aware that Lord Kilmore was watching her again, his dark eyes enigmatic. He intrigued her. He had had no opportunity to approach her so far that evening, but doubtless now that she was going to sit with Lady Emma he would come and ask her to stand up with him.
She was not at all intrigued to see that Ralph Osborne was seated beside her chaperon. Annoyance more aptly described what she felt. The wretched man did not need to keep an eye on her for Aunt Zenobia while she was in a respectable ballroom! However, Mr. Osborne did not appear to have the least desire to keep an eye on her. He was deep in conversation with Lady Emma and neither of them looked up as she and Cousin Neil approached.
Robert Gilchrist was waiting there for his friend. Alison was about to greet him when she saw Fanny Witherington nearby, her partner having just left her with Lady Witherington. Fanny caught her eye, exchanged a word with her mother and came to join them.
Alison performed the necessary introductions, and Mr. Gilchrist promptly asked Fanny to dance. Alison recognized the light in his eye—just so had he looked when in the first throes of his sonnet. No doubt he would want to play his flute to Fanny.
Miss Witherington was consulting her card. “I am sorry, sir,” she said with an apologetic smile, “but the next dance is a waltz. I have not yet received permission to waltz.”
‘‘Then the one after,” persisted Mr. Gilchrist. “I shall go and ask your mama at once.’’
“Shall we sit out the waltz together?” Fann
y asked Alison.
“Would it be really shocking to stand up?”
“Oh yes! Until you have been approved by one of the patronesses of Almack’s, it is enough to sink you forever.”
Alison wondered how she was going to tell Mr. Trevelyan she was not going to dance with him. He was coming now, accompanied by the plump, almost dowdy lady who had reminded her of Aunt Cleo, but whose name she had not caught in the receiving line.
His smile was almost mischievous. “Lady Castlereagh, allow me to make Miss Larkin known to you.”
Alison curtsied very low. Lady Castlereagh, wife of the Foreign Secretary and a patroness of Almack’s, nodded to her good-naturedly.
“Philip has persuaded me to recommend him to you as a desirable partner for the waltz, Miss Larkin.”
“Thank you, my lady, I shall be delighted.” She should have known Philip had everything under control. Greatly daring, she added, “If you do not object, ma’am, I should like to present my friend and my cousin.”
Her ladyship graciously consented. Miss Witherington and Lord Deverill, who had stepped back, were introduced. Philip, with an astonished look that made Alison want to giggle, shook hands with Cousin Neil.
“I expect you wish to stand up with Miss Witherington for the waltz, eh?” Lady Castlereagh said to Neil Deverill, just as Robert Gilchrist came back from speaking to Lady Witherington.
Robert glared at Neil.
“I should be honoured, ma’am,” Neil said, with dancing imps in his blue eyes, “but I believe Mr. Gilchrist has the prior claim.”
“Gilchrist? Edgehill’s boy? Ah yes. Miss Witherington, I daresay you will like to waltz with Mr. Gilchrist.” Beaming benevolently, her ladyship moved on.
“Save the next waltz for me, cousin,” Neil murmured as Alison took Mr. Trevelyan’s arm.
“So you have discovered a cousin,” he said as he led her onto the floor.
