Talk of the Ton

by Eloisa James

  Forsythe blinked. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. And then he smiled and sat a little straighter, having obviously reached the conclusion Darien wanted him to reach. A conclusion he hoped the man would repeat to his chit of a daughter and anyone else who would listen.

  “I think I take your meaning very well, sir,” Forsythe said, sounding decidedly happier than a moment ago. “Yes, my lord, I do indeed take your meaning! Well then,” he said, coming to his feet, “I believe I have taken enough of your time.”

  Darien smiled, too, and gained his feet. “I believe you have,” he said and, clapping the man congenially on the back, he showed him the door.

  Chapter Eleven

  No one, unless they were dead or in the process of dying, missed the Southbridge Charity Auction Ball.

  It signaled the home stretch of the season and was the event where debutantes who had not received an offer, and dandies who were toying with making an offer, wanted to see and be seen. It was the event where the next year’s crop of debutantes was talked about, and speculation made as to how they might be paired up with the idle young men of the ton.

  Married couples looked to the event as the last time they might see their lover, either real or potential. The older couples relished the hijinks of the young and speculated openly as to their various chances for success.

  The event was held annually at the Southbridge mansion, in the grand ballroom that some said rivaled that of Carlton House, and was, according to most, just as elaborate as that of Carlton House. The walls were covered in blue silk that matched the paint on the ceiling, where a scene depicting heaven, complete with clouds and angels and naked cherubs playing their trumpets of love, had been artfully portrayed. The room was so cavernous that it required a twelve-piece orchestra, positioned in an alcove above the dance floor, which had been polished to perfection with hundreds of beeswax candles and dotted at its borders with potted orange trees.

  At the other end of the ballroom, a platform had been erected, and it was from that platform the auction would commence at precisely midnight. In addition to being the event of the season, the Charity Auction Ball could also be credited with raising hundreds of pounds for the Ladies Auxiliary Charitable Works Benefiting Orphans and Pensioners.

  Up until the auction commenced, and for hours long after it was over, there would be dancing in the main ballroom, gaming for the gentlemen across the way in the library, and supper served in the formal dining room for those in need of sustenance.

  It was the place to be, and the last place Kate wanted to be.

  If it hadn’t been for Papa, she wouldn’t be in attendance at all. But he’d been quite firm in this—he’d insisted she attend (“You’re not getting a day younger, Kate,”) and had even commissioned a lovely pale gold gown for her, made of gossamer silk with a train studded in tiny crystals that swept down from the middle of her back. Certainly it was the loveliest gown she’d ever worn, and even she could agree that the pale gold complemented her coloring.

  But she’d been appalled when he’d first presented it to her, arguing that a vicar’s widow did not wear something so lovely, and in addition, he could not afford something so fine on his pension.

  “I suppose I can, and I did,” he’d said gruffly.

  “But why, Papa?” she’d asked as she had taken the gown from the modiste box to admire it.

  “Is it not obvious, Kate? You are a young woman in the prime of her life. I can’t bear to see you sitting about this tiny house wearing that drab vicar’s wife gown, reading to an old man night after night! You deserve happiness! You deserve the very best this life has to offer! But you’ll not find it rapping at your door—you must seek it, and I’ll be damned if I’ll allow you to seek it looking like a martyr.”

  Kate loved her father dearly. And on any other occasion, she would have been proud to wear the gown, thrilled with the luxury of it. But on this occasion, she felt nothing but dread. How could she see him, see his eyes and his mouth and his broad hands, and watch him publicly offer for Miss Forsythe? She’d die of heartache; she was certain of it.

  It was not to be borne.

  But she’d not had the heart or the courage to tell her father what had happened between her and Montgomery, and therefore could do nothing but don the gown and attend.

  Her resolve crumbled quickly once she reached the ball and saw her father into the gaming room, however, for everyone was whispering about the impending offer Lord Montgomery would make for Miss Forsythe. “He’s forty thousand pounds a year,” Mrs. Peters whispered to Kate as she helped herself to punch. “That will make Mr. Forsythe quite happy, I assure you, as his fortune has dwindled somewhat with his son’s gambling debts.”

  “Forty thousand pounds a year,” Kate said evenly. “That’s almost impossible to comprehend, is it not?”

  “Not if you’re Miss Forsythe, I assure you,” Mrs. Peters said with a decided smirk.

  “It happened at the May Day Ball,” Kate overheard one young woman say to another. “He was very attentive to her.”

  “Because she fainted,” the other woman said, clearly not as impressed with the events of the May Day Ball.

  “And you wouldn’t do the same,” the first woman chastised her friend, “if Lord Montgomery had whispered decadent thoughts into your ear?”

  Kate tried to stay away from the whispering and conjecture, and busied herself with the preparation of the night’s auctions. It was an exercise in futility, for it seemed that everywhere she looked, Darien was standing there, looking magnificent in his formal tails and snowy white waistcoat, his eyes gleaming as he chatted with other guests. And if she felt her heart start to tear in two again, she would turn away from him, only to see Miss Forsythe, looking quite serene in her gown of pink and green.

  Worse yet, more than one woman looked at her with some disgust. Or in the case of men, with lust.

  Emily’s court gown, as she explained to Tabitha, was made by a French modiste. Tabitha declared she couldn’t possibly tell if it was French or English, but that it was perfectly lovely for such an important occasion. Emily thought it was more than perfectly lovely—it was the grandest gown in the entire room. When Montgomery offered for her, she’d be the envy of every woman in attendance.

  In truth—not that she’d admit this to another living soul—she’d been rather anxious when she and her family had arrived tonight. Even though her father returned home from calling on Montgomery with the news that he would offer for her this very night, Emily had been bothered by the small detail that he’d not called on her personally to say as much. Shouldn’t he have done so? Her mother said no, that it was not absolutely necessary to do so, seeing as how he’d already spoken to her father.

  Perhaps not. But still . . .

  When the Forsythes had arrived earlier, it seemed as if everyone in the entire ballroom knew about the supposed offer that was to take place. Emily was aware of heads turning toward her, whispers at her back. And when Montgomery made his entrance with Frederick, calm and perfectly poised, she’d known a bit of panic. How could he possibly be so calm if he contemplated making a public offer that would impact the rest of his life?

  But then Montgomery had walked very near her, and had paused, turned round, and walked to her. “Miss Forsythe,” he’d said, bowing low.

  “My lord,” she said and curtsied as she offered him her hand, as she had practiced dozens of times in the privacy of her chambers.

  “It gives me great pleasure to see you this evening.”

  Emily’s heart dropped to her toes. She beamed up at him. “Thank you!” she gushed.

  With a subtle wink, he walked on in the company of his friends, one of whom said, in Emily’s hearing, “You’ll have her eating from your hand before the vows are even said.” For some reason, that remark caused the other gentlemen to laugh heartily. Emily didn’t care—let them laugh, for she’d have the last laugh as Lady Montgomery.

  Darien’s show of the carefree bachelor was
merely a facade; inside, he couldn’t have been more anxious. All around him, gentlemen were making remarks about how the mighty had fallen. They referred to him, of course, and what they believed to be an imminent offer for Miss Forsythe’s hand.

  Their remarks didn’t bother him. Nor did his plans for Miss Forsythe. It was Kate that had him all in knots. He had no idea how she’d react to what he planned. For all he knew, given her sudden abhorrence of him, she might slap him across the face.

  Darien surreptitiously scanned the crowd, looking for her, putting down the fear that perhaps she hadn’t come at all. But then he caught a glimpse of her near the auction table, and his heart skipped a beat or two. He’d never seen her look as lovely as she did this evening in a dress that sparkled with the light of thousands of candles, her hair elegantly arranged and bound with ribbons. It was truly, he thought, like looking at an angel sent from heaven.

  As he stood gazing at her, she glanced up and caught his eye. For a moment, a single moment, it seemed as if time stood still, as if there was no one in the room but the two of them. Darien felt it so strongly that he took one step toward her—but Kate quickly looked away and walked to the far side of the room.

  He debated going after her. When the orchestra struck up from having taken a brief respite, he made up his mind. Making his apologies to the men around him, he stepped away, then strode to the far side of the ballroom. Heaven was with him—Kate didn’t see him coming; she had stopped to admire a stand of roses and was caught completely off guard when he touched her shoulder.

  She gasped and twisted about. Her jaw fell open, and he could see in her eyes that she looked for an escape. “No, Kate,” he said firmly. “You’ve evaded me for more than a week. I will not allow you to do so now.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And how do you propose to stop me, my lord?” she asked in a hot whisper.

  “Do you doubt I will? And I’ll have no qualms about doing it publicly, madam. Do you dare test me? Or would you rather stand up this waltz with me and be done with it?”

  Kate seemed to be considering her options, her eyes darting to the door leading to the corridor, then to the crowd at Darien’s back.

  “Not an easy escape this time, is it, love? Come on then, Kate,” he said, holding out his hand, palm up. “Come with me.”

  She made a sound in her throat—a cry, a sob, he wasn’t certain—her eyes filled with tears, and she looked dangerously close to breaking apart.

  “One dance,” he said quickly, feeling sorry for her. “Just one dance.” There was, he knew, no escape for her unless she wanted to create a scene by cutting him. Kate knew it, too, and she slowly, reluctantly, slipped her hand into his palm. Darien instantly closed his fingers tightly around hers and released a small sigh of relief.

  “A waltz,” he said low. “Do you know the waltz?”

  She nodded and allowed herself to be led onto the dance floor. Darien was aware of the many pairs of eyes on them, the sound of whispering as he led her out. He could almost feel the shock of surprise ripple through the crowd and supposed his asking the vicar’s widow to dance was akin to the parting of the Red Sea. It certainly wasn’t any less dramatic.

  On the dance floor, he bowed, and Kate, her eyes downcast, curtsied. He put his hand on her waist and remembered, with achingly vivid clarity, the curve of that waist into her naked hip.

  The waltz began, and he pulled her close to him and swept her into the stream of dancers. “Look up at me,” he commanded her. “You can’t avoid me now.”

  She looked up. To his neckcloth.

  “And now that I have your undivided attention, perhaps you might tell me why, after the most glorious afternoon of my life, that you would work so hard to avoid me?”

  “How can you ask that?” she demanded on a strangled laugh. “I should think the answer to that is obvious, my lord!”

  “My lord! What happened to Darien? What happened to us, Kate?”

  She shook her head, pressed her lips together, and glanced over his shoulder.

  “Obviously, you think I have wronged you somehow,” he said, feeling his heart slipping with the utterance, “but for the life of me, I don’t know what I’ve done.”

  “You haven’t done anything,” she said morosely. “The blame lands squarely on my shoulders. I am nine and twenty—not a naive girl. I freely accompanied you, and I knew exactly to what end.” This she said with a sidelong glance at those around them.

  “Then why?” he asked, gripping her hand in his.

  She looked up at him then, her green eyes studying him, as if she tried to make sense of something only she could see. “Why? As if you don’t know why!” she said sharply, and her eyes were suddenly blazing. “Does it give you some sort of perverse pleasure to ask me this?”

  Darien blinked. “You think I lied to you?”

  Kate said nothing but continued to look at him with fire and hurt in her eyes. Anger swelled in his chest, and he twirled her roughly round the corner of the dance floor, catching sight of several guests standing off to the side as he did, watching them intently, and whispering to one another.

  Darien suddenly realized that not only had Kate heard the rumors, she had believed the gossip that he would offer for Miss Forysthe. And therefore believed that he had used her. Silly, silly woman! Could she not see the way he looked at her? Could she not feel his longing?

  He sighed wearily and shook his head. “How could you not believe me, Kate? Of course I never lied to you!”

  For some reason, that made her smile sadly. “I know you didn’t lie, my lord . . . but perhaps you were very artful in the manner in which you spoke to me. Perhaps you chose your words carefully.”

  Now the anger swelled like a rough sea in him. “You impugn my integrity, madam. I never lied to you, and furthermore, the truth will be revealed, here tonight, you silly little chit.”

  She gasped with indignation. “Marvelous!” she said, tossing her head back and glaring up at him. “I thought as much, my lord! Miss Forsythe is a delightful girl. I am certain you will both be exceedingly happy. But you will not have me to warm your adulterous bed,” she whispered hotly.

  Darien chuckled low and pulled her close. “Would you like to place a wager on that, Mrs. Becket?” he asked icily.

  Her eyes narrowed. “You must be as free with your money as you are with your words.”

  “I’m not free with either. I use them only when necessary and never frivolously. And before you say another unkind word, let me say that I shall look forward to the truth being revealed, and I will demand that you promise one thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “When you hear the truth revealed,” he said with a wicked smile, “you will acknowledge it as the truth, and do so graciously, like a lady ought.”

  Her brows formed something of a furious vee above her glittering green eyes. “I vow to be as gracious as you are ever faithful, my lord.”

  “Then you might do it with a smile. Grace is all the lovelier with a smile.”

  “I would not smile if you were the last man on earth,” she said evenly, her eyes narrowing even more as the waltz drew to a close.

  Darien chuckled and squeezed her hand before he let her go. “Before you stick your foot completely in your mouth, Kate, remember what I said. There is no one but you.” And with that, he dropped her hand, stepped back, and bowed deep.

  Kate gave him a skeptical look, then turned and walked away from him on the dance floor.

  Darien smiled at her departing back and strolled away in the opposite direction, in search of Emily.

  He found her sitting with Miss Townsend on chairs that lined one wall. She tried to be coy as he approached, tried to pretend she didn’t see him, and very poorly pretended to be surprised when he clicked his heels before her and bowed low. “Miss Forsythe, how do you do.”

  “Oh! You startled me sir!” she cried with a false laugh. “I do very well, indeed.”

  “Will you do me the honor of giving me thi
s dance?” he asked, extending his hand. “Unless, of course, you are already spoken for?”

  Miss Forsythe looked at her friend, who was still staring at Darien as if she couldn’t quite believe he’d asked. “I’d be delighted,” Miss Forsythe said, and nudged her friend before rising to her feet and accompanying him to the dance floor, smiling broadly for everyone to see.

  The dance was a quadrille, and Darien took his place across from her, bowing low. As the music started, he took his steps toward her and around her. “You look resplendent.”

  She blushed.

  “You must be expecting an extraordinary evening.”

  The girl blushed again, looked a little nonplussed, as if she didn’t quite know how to respond.

  “I know that I am,” he said, smiling. “An extraordinary evening.”

  Now she beamed at him. “Oh dear, my lord, you are making me quite nervous! When will you do it? At the auction? Lady Southbridge said these sorts of things were always done at the auction in the past.”

  “What sort of things?” he asked nonchalantly, and had to keep from laughing when the girl stumbled in her effort to retract what she’d said.

  “I, ah . . . I’m not really certain what she meant.”

  “I was rather surprised to know that Lady Southbridge knew of my intentions, frankly,” he said evenly, watching her closely.

  The girl averted her gaze. “Were you?”

  “Or your father, for that matter. How do you suppose your father knew?”

  “Oh! I, ah . . . I suppose he, ah heard my mother speak of it.”

  “Hmm . . . and do you suppose Lady Southbridge heard your mother speak of it?”

  He could almost hear the conniving little wheels turning in her head as she tried to sort her way through this mess. Her color was high—a casual observer might think he was whispering decadent things in her ear as they danced. At any other dance, under any other circumstance, he might have done so.