The Madcap

by Nikki Poppen

  “You’re in a sour mood tonight,” Camberly commented, his eyes never leaving the dance floor where his bride of two years danced with an aging baron.

  “I was merely wondering who the richest girl in the room was tonight,” Alasdair said with ennui. “Then I realized it’s the same every night. There’s no difference.” He waved a languid hand at the dancers swirling on the floor. “They’re all the same. The richest girl in the room is still Pamela Hutchinson and she’s still engaged to the Earl of Putnam’s son. Nothing ever changes”

  “Did you quarrel with your mother again?” Lionel nudged Alasdair with an elbow to the side, his face splitting into a teasing grin.

  Lionel’s good humor was instantly contagious and Alasdair found his spirits lifting a bit. It was no secret among the three of them that his mother was a consummate harpy. Alasdair chuckled. “She’s determined to see me married by Christmas, and fancies a winter ceremony at the old pile,” he said, referring to the Pennington seat in Devonshire.

  “And who’s to be the bride?” Lionel inquired in mock seriousness. They all knew-indeed it seemed most of London knew-who had garnered his mother’s preference as the next Countess of Pennington.

  “Sarah Stewart, as always. Mother and Sarah’s father have been keen to join the estates for years and Sarah’s father has a respectable amount of blunt, at least enough to keep the places going until the economy takes an upturn” Alasdair took another sip, unwilling to say anymore. Sarah was likable enough as a friend, even as a cherished friend. He’d known her since his childhood; fact was, he’d known her for her whole life. He’d been twelve when he’d gone to her christening. Therein lay the problem. There was something disturbing about having known one’s bride when she’d been in her nappies.

  Perhaps that was the whole problem with the entire Season, he groused. Everyone knew everyone and had for years. Alasdair knew, too, that he could no longer wait for the perfect bride. The situation with the estate had become dire. The luxury of remaining unattached had come to an end. He had to use the last asset he had and find a bride with extensive amounts of money this Season. Unfortunately, that last asset was himself and the august Pennington title.

  The time had come for him to sell himself in matrimony. Of course, he had his pride. It wouldn’t look quite that sordid on the surface. On the surface, it would appear that he was making yet another of the famous alliances the peerage were known for amongst themselves. But on the inside he would know what had finally dragged him to the altar and caused him to sacrifice his dreams of building something more with a wife.

  His mother might truly be a harpy but it was not necessarily unwarranted. The family coffers were in danger of running dry. The agricultural depression had bled the estate, and although he hoped for an upturn, he had enough financial acumen to know the aristocracy would never be the same. Life as an idle, landed gentleman, living off the rents of others was a thing of the past. Relying on the land as a primary source of income to support over-large estates was a dangerous position to be in when one’s social status rested on one’s ability to lavishly and regularly entertain Bertie, Prince Albert. While Alasdair counted Bertie among his close friends, he scrimped and economized in order to accommodate a royal visit. He was very much hoping this year to avoid one altogether. He didn’t want to need Sarah Stewart’s modest fortune.

  Sarah Stewart, his passably pretty neighbor, was the closest thing to an heiress he could find. Heiresses were in short supply in England, thanks to primogeniture and the male inheritance hierarchy. Alasdair knew that, for the sake of his family’s security and position with the royal family, he might not have a choice. Sarah Stewart was fast becoming his only lifeline.

  Regardless, he couldn’t help but feel one more nail was being pounded into his proverbial coffin. He’d once naively believed that when he became the viscount, he’d be able to take back his life, make his own choices. But instead of freeing him, inheriting had only served to stifle his own desires even further. There was so little room for any expression of his own independence, his own wishes, in his life. At fiveand-thirty, Alasdair Braden hardly knew who he was anymore beyond the physical embodiment of the Pennington title.

  There was a flurry of commotion on the dance floor and a space opened up in the middle as people cleared out of the path of the oncoming dancers. Alasdair was riveted. The whirling pair was magnificent, waltzing in bold, sharp movements, their well-executed turns creating a large circle for them to move in undisturbed. They were dancing in the daring Viennese style, Alasdair soon realized. The woman was held far too close to the man’s body for English standards, his arm not merely at the small of her back but wrapped around her waist to bring her near.

  Alasdair recognized the man, Andrew Kentworth, the dashing heir to a respectable barony. Kentworth was young, but he should have known better. What could he have been thinking to induce a young lady to dance so perilously close to scandal? Then Alasdair looked at Kentworth’s partner and knew precisely what the younger man was thinking. One look at the spun-gold hair of Kentworth’s partner and Alasdair was quite certain Kentworth wasn’t thinking at all.

  In a room full of known commodities, Kentworth’s partner was a newly lit candle burning brightly against the stark sameness of the other dancers. In a room filled with girls gowned in white satin and ridiculous frills, she shone in a gown of pale blue elegantly worked with a pattern of bronze swirls and curlicues. Instead of placing the focus on ruffles and bows, the dress relied on the wearer’s form for its elegance. The gown’s tailoring and high style bespoke Worth’s stamp. The light from the chandeliers overhead glanced off the delicate seed-pearl trim of the gown’s bodice and drew Alasdair’s attention to the dancer’s face.

  She was enraptured by the dance and its breathless speed. He could see it in the smile on her face, the tilt of her chin as she looked slightly up at her partner, the cobalt glow in her shining eyes as she passed by Alasdair where he stood on the perimeter. He was dazzled by her. Intuitively, he knew he was struck by more than the image created by the expensive gown and the pearland-diamond collar about her slender neck, or by the rich pile of deep gold curls artfully pinned atop her head.

  She was no still-life mannequin, another pattern card of English propriety. She was alive! Had he ever enjoyed a dance so thoroughly, found such pleasure in a piece of music? Been so completely true to himself in any given moment?

  He had not realized he’d stepped forward until he felt Camberly’s firm hand on his arm and his low whisper at his ear, “Easy, Dair.”

  “I must dance with her,” Alasdair said simply. He stepped back from the floor but his eyes didn’t leave the vision that had literally waltzed into his world. Never could he recall having been so intensely smitten.

  He wasn’t the only man who felt that way, Alasdair discovered twenty minutes later as he pushed his way through the throng that was gathered about her. But he might have a slight advantage: he had the Countess of Camberly to offer an introduction on his behalf. Alasdair had shamelessly cornered Camberly’s wife the moment she’d returned from the dance floor. Audrey had the uncanny ability to know everyone at any given event and she did not fail him tonight. Not only did she know the young lady, but she’d had the good fortune to meet her when Camberly and Audrey had been in New York visiting her family last year.

  “I never thought knowing an American would be so helpful,” Alasdair murmured teasingly to Audrey who nudged through the crowd beside him.

  “We have our uses.” Audrey smiled, doing little to hide her amusement over his agitation. “There, we’ve made it.” Audrey drew him forward with her into the inner circle standing around the lovely girl.

  “Miss Addison, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” Audrey offered the girl her hand to shake in the bold American custom. “Camberly and I enjoyed our visit to New York. I hope you did as well,” Audrey said smoothly. Alasdair noticed how she’d discreetly slipped her name into the conversation to jog the girl’s mem
ory just in case. It certainly jogged the girl’s mother’s memory. Sitting beside the daughter was a woman of middle years bearing a strong resemblance to the beauty beside her. She sat up straighter, her eyes brightening at the mention of Camberly.

  “Of course we remember you, Lady Camberly”

  “My friend, Viscount Pennington, wished to make your acquaintance, Miss Addison.” Audrey gestured in his direction and Alasdair hoped he wasn’t smiling like a smitten fool. Miss Addison was far lovelier up close than she’d been on the dance floor. Her blue eyes sparkled when she turned her gaze his direction. Alasdair took her hand and bowed over it. “Miss Addison, it is a great pleasure to meet you. Might I prevail upon you for the next dance?”

  Alasdair knew his request was most unorthodox. He was putting the young lady in the position of having to reject him outright if the slot was already taken, not a position in which a gentleman put a lady. After all, the whole point of dance cards was to avoid a scenario such as this. She tilted her pretty head and gave him a considering look. “I would love to dance, but I must decline since my dances are all spoken for.” She held up her dance card. “A Lord Brantley has the next dance”

  “Then I shall have to hope for better luck another time,” Alasdair said politely. The girl needed to be more discerning, he thought privately. Simply putting a title in front of a man’s name didn’t make him respectable, and that was definitely the case with Brantley, who was as thorough a reprobate as any and barely received by decent families. The girl’s mother should know better. English mothers did. But that was the difference between the English girls and the American ones. Alasdair had met American girls before. For all their forthright behaviors, they were incredibly naive when it came to navigating the intricacies of the British peerage.

  Beside him, Audrey was saying something to the mother about coming to call, but Alasdair was eager to get away. He suddenly had a public service to render.

  He used his height to scan the ballroom, looking for Brantley’s blond head. Alasdair spotted him by a cluster of potted palms, deep in conversation with a group of men. He approached the group casually, catching snippets of the current conversation. Brantley and his group of inveterate gamblers were arguing the merits of the various horses racing at Ascot in a few weeks. A consummate gambler, Brantley was always on the prowl for the next big payoff to line his usually empty pockets. Those who knew his reputation best knew that the next big payoff wasn’t only a gamble at the track or the tables but was often a gamble of a truly dangerous type, through more disreputable venues. It was oft whispered that he had engaged in some unsa vory swindles a few years back on the Exchange and even in a few attempts at blackmail.

  Alasdair grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing footman and easily insinuated himself into the conversation, offering opinions here and there on the different horses. He heard the music strike up for the next set of dances. Next to him, Brantley stirred.

  “I’ve got to go and do my duty with the American chit.” He gave a sigh, indicating he was less than pleased at having been corralled into the obligation. “She’s a pretty little heathen, at least, and there’s rumor her fortune is large enough to compensate for any other deficiencies.”

  Alasdair stiffened at the callous remarks, suddenly filled with chivalrous indignation. Brantley turned to leave the group and then something terrible happened. He bumped into Alasdair’s right arm and Alasdair’s nearly full glass of champagne spilled down the man’s shirt front. Alasdair reached quickly for his handkerchief and offered it to Brantley, the very picture of a contrite apology.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. It was so incredibly clumsy of me” Alasdair said the words, all the while thinking the only thing clumsy about it was that he hadn’t the foresight to take two glasses of champagne off the trayone for his ploy to garner a dance and one for the cad’s comments about Miss Addison.

  “No harm, Pennington.” Brantley dabbed at the large wet splotch. “Deuce take it, though. I can’t very well go collect my partner with a wet shirt and smelling of alcohol.”

  “I’ll be glad to stand in for you,” Alasdair offered, stepping into the breach.

  Brantley’s eyes narrowed dangerously with speculation. “I am sure you would, Pennington. We all know that it’s bad form to break an engagement with a lady. Give her my regrets, would you?” Brantley drawled in an ambiguous tone that only just hinted at hostility. Perhaps he had misjudged the man’s supposed regret over dancing with Miss Addison. Perhaps Brantley’s original attitude had been feigned. If so, Alasdair was more than glad to have thwarted the man’s efforts to engage the unsuspecting Miss Addison.

  “With pleasure,” Alasdair said, slipping back into the crowd and wending his way back to Miss Addison’s court. Within minutes, he explained how he’d carelessly spilled a full glass of champagne on her upcoming dance partner. Oh yes, he’d been most apologetic when he’d claimed Miss Addison for the dance, a lively polka, but he knew he wasn’t sorry in the least.

  “How kind you are, my lord, to come to my rescue,” Miss Addison said while they took their places on the floor. “Is Lord Brantley a friend of yours?”

  “No, we’re not particularly close” Alasdair didn’t bother to think about his answer. He was more interested in the intent blue gaze with which she fixed him, a whisper of a smile playing at her lips. Did she suspect?

  The music started and the fast pace of the dance, while invigorating, left little opportunity for conversation. Alasdair didn’t care. Miss Addison was light on her feet and threw herself into the energetic dance with all the vivacity she possessed. His spirits soared and for a few minutes, Alasdair felt free. All thoughts of Sarah Stewart and penniless estates eased from his mind and he lost himself in Miss Addison’s joy.

  The dance ended, leaving them breathless from their exertions, but she was still smiling, a coy, nuzzling smile that provoked his curiosity. “What is it?” he asked, cupping a hand beneath her elbow to guide her back to her mother.

  “It all makes sense now.”

  “What does?” Alasdair replied, perplexed.

  “Why you came to dance with me when Lord Brantley became indisposed,” she said bluntly. “You’ve admitted not being friends with the man you replaced. It seems odd that someone who is not a friend would fill in for a mere acquaintance. I can only conclude that you spilled the champagne on him purposefully.”

  There it was in all its vaunted glory: American free speaking. By rights, he should have been offended. Such an accusation was hardly ladylike nor did the lady’s bringing it up show him in an honorable light. But the only thing Alasdair could do was laugh.

  “And if I did? Will you keep my secret, Miss Addison?”

  “Will you come to call tomorrow?” she teased in return as those blue eyes of hers danced with mischief.

  “Is this how blackmail is done in America?”

  “Blackmail is such an ugly word,” she bantered easily. “This is merely a reciprocal exchange of commodities between friends.”

  “Friend.” Another reminder of her very-American nature. Such a term was used more conservatively in his circles. He was tempted to bring her attention to it. Friends after only a dance? Such a thing was not comme it faut in his circles. He elected to take a different tack. “A social call is the going rate for keeping a secret?” Alasdair affected a look of consideration. “I think I rather like this market”

  It was time to give her back to her mother and the court of men awaiting her return. Alasdair reluctantly relinquished her, saying in low tones, “Until tomorrow.” But he walked away with a spring in his step. At long last there was something to which to look forward.

  The hands of the long clock in the corner of the sitting room had hardly moved since the last time Marianne had discreetly checked them. Apparently, that had been less than a minute ago. Her mother coughed gently, indicating that Marianne hadn’t been as discreet as she’d thought. She redoubled her efforts to pay attention to the guests seated around her.
Several of the gentlemen she’d danced with the night before had called this afternoon with their sisters or mothers. But the only one she was interested in seeing again was conspicuously absent. Viscount Pennington had promised he’d call and Marianne was mentally holding him to it.

  Dancing with him had been near magic. There was no question about his quality as a fine dancer but there was more to it. She’d danced with others who were accomplished in that regard as well. There’d been a certain polish about the viscount that set him apart from the others, a confident aura in the way he carried himself. Self-assurance had set well on his broad shoulders. He knew what he wanted and he’d wanted her. Not lasciviously by any means, unlike a few of the older men with whom she’d danced, who’d actually leered at her. Nor had he been assessing her value down to the last diamond and pearl in the necklace she’d worn as the controversial Lord Brantley had obviously done when he’d signed her dance card.

  Truth be told, she was glad the viscount had ruined the man’s shirt. She’d not been looking forward to dancing with Lord Brantley. The man was attractive in his way but his cold eyes had done nothing to veil his calculations. Marianne had known what he was about from the first.

  Viscount Pennington, on the other hand, had given every sign that he wanted her for herself, that he simply wanted to be with her. She’d thought he’d enjoyed their dance immensely. It had been fun to match wits with him and she’d been impressed that he’d gone to so much trouble just to claim a dance when they both knew he could have merely waited for another night to dance with her. She had genuinely liked him and she’d thought he liked her. But he’d not come and she was more disappointed than she liked to admit.