An Improper Suitor

by Monica Fairview

  Julia finished greeting the last person in the receiving line, an elderly man with a red nose and stays that creaked when he bent to take her hand. She surveyed the flamboyant ballroom. Clearly Mrs Wadswith had spared no expense to prepare for the party. She’d put into effect the latest fashion plates from Ackermann’s Repository, not on a dress, but on the ballroom itself. The dominant colour was Clarence Blue, with several rows of flounces lining the walls. Real wheat ears were set up in Grecian vases throughout the ballroom, and festoons of roses were suspended from the ceiling, windows, and doors. The idea certainly was original, but the execution made the ballroom look like an overcrowded woman’s court dress.

  The worst of it was that half the hostesses in town would be imitating it.

  ‘You’ve got to stop fidgeting,’ said Grannie.

  ‘I’m not fidgeting.’ But her hands betrayed her. Her hands clasped and unclasped of their own volition. She could put them behind her back, she supposed, but it would present an odd appearance.

  ‘Do you want to help Lord Thorwynn or not?’ Lady Bullfinch’s voice was sharp. ‘You won’t pull this off if you look so anxious.’

  Julia stretched her mouth into a broad smile. ‘Better?’ she said.

  ‘It’s lucky people don’t really know you, or they’d know that was a battle grin,’ remarked her grandmother sternly. ‘Remove that smile from your face at once. You have to look like an innocent young debutante, excited at the chance to dance. Maybe you could manage to simper, as well. Anything other than your ferocious don’t get closer expression will do.’

  Julia grinned, a real smile this time. ‘I am an innocent debutante. Not precisely young at three and twenty, but not yet on the shelf. And I love to dance.’ She could not resist teasing her. ‘But no one’s invited me yet. My dance card is completely blank.’

  ‘You’ve only just arrived. I’m sure you’ll be surrounded by admirers in a moment. After all, you do have some money to your name,’ replied Lady Bullfinch, her fierce black eyes twinkling.

  ‘How delightful to dance with the fortune hunters,’ replied Julia, still smiling, but rather more cynically.

  A group of young bucks in bright waistcoats and heavily starched shirt collars standing in front of her moved away, no doubt eager to withdraw to the card-room. Lady Thorwynn came into her line of vision, languishing on a puce sofa, right in the centre of the matrons’ area. A garland of upside down roses dangled over her head. Lady Sefton and Princess Lieven, patronesses of Almack’s, sat close by, watching the younger guests with hawk eyes. Several other prominent personages were seated in the vicinity. She had certainly been able to gather some of Society’s most notorious scandalmongers around her.

  ‘Time for battle,’ said Julia, indicating Lady Thorwynn, raising her chin and drawing a deep breath.

  Grannie reached for her hand and squeezed it. ‘Don’t worry,’ she whispered. ‘Everything will go well. It’s Lord Thorwynn’s future that’s at stake, not your own.’

  ‘As long as I don’t end up being compromised myself,’ she muttered. She had agreed, following the impulse of a moment. But her instincts were screaming for her to back out. The situation could easily veer off in the wrong direction, and she could quickly become the subject of malicious gossip herself.

  If her name was associated too closely with the Laughing Rake, she could well find herself forced into the same marriage she was helping him get out of.

  But no sooner had she started moving towards Lady Thorwynn when her progress was interrupted.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Swifton.’

  An elongated, sausage-like face appeared before her. Mr Eckles was definitely not a fortune hunter, since he stood to inherit a substantial fortune. The matchmakers considered him a fine catch for the young debutantes. Unfortunately, however, his primary passion in life consisted of breeding hunting dogs, an interest Julia did not share.

  ‘Mr Eckles. How delightful to see you.’

  ‘The pleasure is all mine,’ he said, bowing. ‘Could I put my name down for a dance, perhaps?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  He fell into step with her, exchanging pleasantries, and describing to her in great detail his acquisition of a curly-haired retriever. ‘Never seen a dog with such an exquisite sense of smell,’ he proclaimed, launching into an enthusiastic description.

  The moment he realized where Julia and her grandmother were headed, however, he mumbled a quick excuse and disappeared. No young gentleman wanted to be ensnared by a party of matchmakers intent on marrying their charges. She could hardly blame him. She never approached the matrons herself without checking that she did not have a loose tendril of hair or a torn hem or a ribbon out of place. She imagined she would feel the same if she faced a panel of judges for some crime she had committed.

  This time, however, Lady Thorwynn’s extended arm conveyed approval. She patted the sofa next to her for Lady Bullfinch to sit on, and tugged Julia forward with a warm grip.

  ‘I was just telling Mrs Sefton about the accident in the park this morning. I hope that poor girl wasn’t hurt. Miss Neville, I believe she is called. New to town, apparently. You must tell us all about it.’

  The matrons closed in around Julia, but their expressions were friendly.

  Here we go, she thought. Choosing her words carefully, she launched into the prepared narrative, one in which Grandmother featured prominently.

  A quarter of an hour later, Grannie waved her away.

  ‘Go find some of your young friends, girl. You shouldn’t waste the whole night dawdling with the matrons.’

  Relieved that the first part of her ordeal was over, she put as much distance between the matrons and herself as was possible in a crowded ballroom. An old friend of hers from school, Miss Willaby, waved at her, and she moved in her direction.

  She was not destined to reach her.

  The sudden change in the tone of the buzzing around her warned her immediately. Lord Thorwynn had arrived. Nothing in his behaviour, however, showed his awareness that he was the centre of attention. He would have been the centre of attention no matter what happened, even if this were an ordinary evening, since he had not set foot in a respectable ballroom for three years. The small smile hovering on his lips seemed genuine, and his dark eyes were amused. She scrutinized his appearance but found nothing to fault. His black curls were fashionably arranged, and his black suit impeccably tailored. He was like a Roman orator, suddenly transposed into modern dress. A toga would look good on him. The idea brought a smile to her face.

  He caught her examining him, caught her smile. She tried to pretend she was smiling at something someone had said, but since she could find no one to talk to in the vicinity she was forced to abandon the pretence. In two strides he was at her side.

  The buzz followed him, growing louder as he approached. The bees were busy. She would know soon enough whether they would be contented with simply buzzing, or whether they would turn on him and start to sting.

  ‘Delighted to see you again, Miss Swifton,’ said the earl, taking her hand gracefully and bowing over it. ‘I hope you didn’t suffer any mishap after our rescue at Hyde Park.’ He pitched his voice so that it would carry.

  The buzzing diminished to a soft droning. Clearly people were straining to hear her reply.

  ‘None at all,’ she said, beginning for some strange reason to enjoy herself. Perhaps it was the influence of her companion. ‘But it was extremely lucky that we were at hand to help the unfortunate Miss Neville when she fell.’

  His eyes gleamed wickedly.

  Buzz, buzz went the crowd around them. Some of the matrons, not Lady Thorwynn’s group, fluttered their fans like wings.

  ‘I’m very glad she did not break her … limb,’ said Thorwynn. ‘She was certainly in pain. Have you heard anything regarding her injuries?’

  ‘I believe she has not suffered anything serious.’ said Julia. ‘My grandmother called on her this afternoon. It appears she hit her head and complains of a
bad headache, but nothing more.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it. I hope your riding habit survived your kneeling on the wet grass to aid Miss Neville.’

  She made a mental note to have a new riding habit made. It would not do to be seen in the old one after this. She gave a short laugh, ‘I’m afraid it’s beyond repair. Grass stains are very hard to remove.’

  ‘At least it was sacrificed in a good cause,’ he said, solemnly.

  Julia had to control an impulse to laugh aloud. Luckily, she could allow the hint of laughter in her voice. ‘It gives me a perfect excuse to buy a new riding habit. I’ve been longing for one that I saw in the Repository of Fashion. I have the perfect excuse now. I am only sorry my good fortune is at the expense of Miss Neville’s fall.’ Her emphasis was slight, but it was a reminder to those who listened intently.

  They were back on topic. ‘I wonder what could have caused Miss Neville’s horse to bolt like that?’ said Thorwynn, on cue, his eyes dancing madly, but his expression completely bland.

  ‘She told me she heard a loud crack, like a pistol shot. Her horse must be a nervous one.’

  ‘It’s difficult to keep horses properly exercised in London. Unless they are exercised regularly, they can become quite skittish. Especially if they are new to town and are not used to the noise.’ He launched into a loud discourse on the difficulties of keeping a horse in London.

  He was interrupted by the appearance of an impeccably dressed young man with windswept reddish hair.

  ‘Thorwynn,’ he said, clapping his hand on the earl’s shoulder. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘My mother would not take no for an answer,’ said Thorwynn, waving a hand towards Lady Thorwynn. ‘She insists it’s time I think of marriage.’ Then, as if remembering his manners, ‘Allow me to introduce Miss Swifton. Miss Swifton, Viscount Benedict.’

  She curtsied.

  ‘I met Miss Swifton at Hyde Park this morning,’ said Thorwynn, still speaking in that unnaturally loud way. ‘Remember I told you about the unfortunate young lady who fell off her horse?’

  ‘Yes. My dear Miss Swifton, I hope you didn’t suffer any injuries?’

  ‘You’re mistaking the matter, Benny. It was Miss Neville who fell off when her horse bolted. Miss Swifton attempted, very valiantly, to catch up with her horse. As did I. As did Miss Neville’s valet. Even Lady Bullfinch tried valiantly to catch her. But none of us succeeded.’

  The exchange between the two men was so obviously contrived that Julia began to succumb to a fit of giggles. She smothered it, ruthlessly. She had to control herself; if she started laughing, she would ruin everything.

  ‘It was providential that so many people saw her horse bolt. My grandmother, in spite of a recent set-back in her health, was able to give chase. Miss Neville certainly did not lack people to attend to her.’

  ‘Well, I’m delighted to make the acquaintance of the young lady who was the first on the scene,’ said Benedict loudly. He shot her a close look. Something must have alerted him that she was on the verge of losing her composure. ‘Perhaps you would do me the honour of dancing the next dance with me? Unless your reputation as heroine has preceded you, and your card is full?’

  She gave him her hand, smiling. ‘No, indeed, sir, you flatter me. I did not succeed in saving Miss Neville, after all. However, I would be delighted to dance with you.’

  Lionel watched her as they took their places in the quadrille. The dance began, and he found himself following the fluid motion of her body under her shimmering Pomona green gown. She slid through her steps gracefully, with the certainty of a woman who knew she danced well. He had not noticed before that her auburn hair glimmered with ruby highlights, glinting in the hundreds of candles that lighted the room. Something Benny said made her laugh, and he was surprised at the air of mischief she conveyed. She was not what he had been led to expect. His grandmother had mentioned her many times, usually as an intelligent, no-nonsense young lady who seemed to enjoy earnest conversation. He was clearly seeing another side of her tonight.

  She seemed to have taken a liking to Benny. Whenever the dance brought them together, they exchanged a lively remark, and they both moved apart with smiles on their faces.

  Her face was open, an honest face in which contriving and trickery did not play a role. He could not help contrasting her to Angelique, his last mistress. Angelique was beautiful, with her expensive perfumes and her sophisticated hairstyles. She knew how to seduce a man, but she had never given him an uncalculated look in her life. As for Mrs Radlow, the Golden Widow, her beauty took his breath away. He still desired her, despite a long and vigorous night they had shared, but her eyes were hardened, and even though she panted in pleasure under his caresses, she had never once looked at him as though she understood him. Unlike Miss Swifton.

  He dismissed the thought. The two of them had been brought together by a sense of conspiracy, and the unspoken communication between them came from that. It was as though they were comrades in arms, preparing for battle. They had a common goal to accomplish, and that in itself created a bond which would normally not exist.

  There was only one thing wrong with that analogy. In all his years at war, he had never once wished to dance with a comrade in arms.

  CHAPTER 4

  Julia did not remember enjoying a ball so much in her life.

  Certainly she enjoyed the company of Lord Benedict. He put her at ease, and she found conversation with him stimulating. He referred to the Classics, and when she quizzed him on his knowledge, he admitted self-consciously that he had read a first in Classics at Oxford. Before long, they were speaking in Latin, laughing as they translated ballroom inanities into that ancient tongue.

  ‘Well, they must have had some form of “do you come here often?” in Latin,’ she said. ‘Even if it never made it into the textbooks.’

  ‘I suspect some of the monks copying manuscripts in medieval monasteries decided to leave those parts out.’

  She tilted her head as she cut across him. ‘They didn’t object to some of the more raucous Greek plays.’

  ‘The monks who learned Greek were more… enterprising.’

  She came off the dance floor laughing. She was still thinking of something Lord Benedict had said when Lord Thorwynn stepped forward and took her hand, teeth flashing.

  ‘I believe the next waltz is promised to me?’

  She curtseyed, smiling.

  But, as he drew her closer, the laughter died. His dark eyes met hers as his hand settled into the small of her back. His touch was light, but it seared into her, reaching through her gown to caress the skin underneath. He pulled her towards him and for the first time she discovered why the waltz was considered fast.

  Being so close to a gentleman jumbled her brain. With uncharacteristic clumsiness, she stumbled on to his foot, and – what on earth was happening to her – gave him her left hand instead of her right. Blood rushed into her face and she looked down, trying to hide it. But her head brushed against his chest and she stepped back quickly, stepping on the pink silk shoe of the lady behind her.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said to the lady, who frowned and turned her back to her.

  She glanced quickly at Thorwynn, doubly flustered now.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered to him. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t dance. I think the events of the evening have weakened my nerves.’

  What a ninny-headed thing to say. She had nerves like a rock. What had compelled her to make such a statement?

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said, guiding her firmly across the dance floor. ‘I’ve seen you dance. You dance exquisitely. Just listen to the music, and set aside everything else.’

  She resolved to do just that. The strains from the orchestra floated towards her, and she let herself ride them. The hand that held her at the waist melded into her body, its warmth stirring her blood. The fingers entwined in her own sent quiet ripples of sensation into her body. She lost track of the steps, of the whole ballroom, all her senses
focusing on the music and the man who danced so close to her. He led her on a journey that was surely not a dance but a whirl through the air, her feet barely touching the ground. She revelled in it, completely lost to the world around her.

  Suddenly, she realized she was no longer moving, and the music was gone.

  Her partner was looking down at her, his face inscrutable.

  ‘I can confirm that you know how to waltz,’ said Thorwynn. He sounded breathless, his voice rough.

  She smiled up at him, still half caught in the flight. ‘I can confirm the same about you,’ she said.

  He bowed to her, offered his arm, and moved her off the floor as other dancers came together, readying themselves for a new dance.

  The ballroom came into focus. The faces of the matrons, watching. The inverted roses. The Clarence Blue flounces. The Grecian urns. She stumbled. He steadied her with his hand, and ushered her towards her grandmother. When they arrived, his arm drew away from hers and she felt cold.

  ‘Perhaps you’d care for some refreshment?’

  She managed a nod. He disappeared into the crowd.

  ‘I told you you’d enjoy the dancing,’ said Grannie, black eyes glinting.

  She snapped back to awareness. She was in a ballroom, a social event she generally detested, even if she loved dancing. It was an ordinary night just like any other. All that had happened was that she had danced with the Laughing Rake, and somehow, for one moment, fallen under his spell. She understood better than ever why rakes should be avoided at all cost.

  She would tell Grannie in so many words that she would not, under any circumstances, agree to marry this particular rake. He was dangerous, a threat to her peace of mind. She would make sure to avoid him. It would hardly be difficult, in any case, since she did not attend balls very often, preferring the company of a good book to a roomful of chattering magpies. And she knew he generally avoided events organized by the ton, preferring more stimulating company.

  And she would make a concerted effort to find her husband in a place where a rake like Lord Thorwynn would not be caught dead. In the corridors of the Royal Society at Somerset House, at the exhibits in the Egyptian Hall, at the British Museum, and various lecture halls around London. Those were not places where she would even catch a glimpse of him.