by Allison Lane
She stifled a giggle, for he led a gaggle of equally officious goslings.
* * * *
Sedge smoothed his expression into the ennui that would hide his irritation. For years, he had derived amusement from watching Society’s antics. Human nature intrigued him, and London provided an excellent laboratory for observing it closely.
But this Season was not providing the usual entertainment. The ever-present flock of sprigs dangling from his coattails annoyed him. The importuning chits more closely resembled grasping harpies than innocent maidens hoping to catch his eye. Even gossip no longer appealed. Who cared whether Lady Alderleigh’s affair with Devereaux was nearing its conclusion, or that Blackthorn had converted the very conservative Harlow to the cause of reform, or that Mr. Lastmark was hopelessly enamored with the already-betrothed Miss Lutterworth?
Yet each of these stories would have amused him just two months ago.
Perhaps his dissatisfaction arose from spending those months with Randolph and Elizabeth. After enjoying so many intellectual discussions, Society chatter seemed flat. And being subjected to their simmering passion left him feeling lonely. Resuming his fatuous London façade had been more difficult than ever before.
It did not help that he knew his mother was right. At one-and-thirty, it was time to set up his nursery. Yet finding a congenial wife loomed as an impossible quest. He wanted what Randolph had found – the peace, the passion, the personal completeness that Elizabeth brought to his friend’s life. Yet how could he find such a wife? Seeking help was impossible. His mother would redouble her pressure if she knew of his capitulation. Just having Elizabeth around had increased her determination.
“I s-say,” stammered young Cathcart. “What do you think of that new hell on Jermyn?”
Sedge paused to quiz the lad from head to toe. “Admirable waistcoat, Cathcart. An improvement on last week’s. Commend your tailor.” He paused so the youngster could stutter out his gratitude. “You were asking about Beckworth’s?”
He nodded.
“It’s not a place I would patronize. Gull-gropers and sharps crowd the tables.”
“B-but LaRouche recommended it highly.”
“Did he?” He let his lips form a slight smile. “I rest my case.”
Gasps from his tail proved that more than one lad had accepted LaRouche’s word about the new hell. LaRouche was probably backing the place, which itself should warn the wise to stay far away. The man had long been suspected of sharping cards, though no one had ever caught him.
But he had no interest in gaming hells tonight.
Could he find a match this Season? The girls making their bows looked younger than ever. He wanted a wife he could love the way Randolph loved Elizabeth. A wife of passion. Of courage. Someone who saw beyond his public face and could accept him in his entirety. Someone with whom he could truly relax.
It was an odd thought, but important. Despite knowing that his parents cared for him, he could never relax at Glendale Close. They constantly sought to improve him, to mold him into their own image. They condemned his interests and derided any characteristic they did not share. But he needed more than such qualified support.
He had always envied Randolph his parents, and even more so now. They had welcomed Elizabeth, lavishing her with warmth and affection. But his own parents would never be like that. So if he truly needed a loving family, he must build his own.
Devil take it!
He hid a grimace as the Silverton twins practically leaped in front of him. Their father had recently been knighted for service to the crown – a euphemism for loaning Prinny a large sum of money that would likely never be repaid – gaining them limited entrée into Society. But they had little understanding of acceptable behavior. They didn’t even recognize snubs.
“My lord, you look positively dazzling tonight,” gushed one – he didn’t bother identifying which.
“Complete to a shade,” concurred her sister.
“So distinguished!”
“A person of dashing consequence.”
“Bang up to the echo.”
“A veritable tulip!”
He nearly cringed, for while he took pains with his dress, he disliked the excesses too many sprigs espoused. And these cant phrases should never be uttered by ladies, especially in public. But he remained silent. The twins rarely allowed anyone to edge a word into their chatter.
“We are so delighted to see you.”
“And thrilled to receive this invitation from dear, dear Lady Ormsport.”
“It must have been your doing.”
“We have to thank you.”
“Papa even bought us new gowns for the occasion.”
“What do you think? Are they not the most marvelous creations?”
Two pairs of brown eyes gazed expectantly at him. He couldn’t resist such an opening. Their antics had worn thin long ago. Lifting his quizzing glass, he examined each girl at leisure, finally releasing a despondent sigh. “One must indeed marvel. So much decoration obscures the underlying fabric. But you should remind your modiste that elegance demands simpler lines.”
They blanched, falling back a pace at the blow. He turned away, regretting the necessity for the set-down. But they had already proved themselves incapable of discerning hints. If they took his words to heart, he had just done them a considerable favor. But their future was out of his hands.
So what should he do about finding a wife? His mother’s candidates were impossible; she had a knack for choosing the most inane chits available. Yet none of the girls staging come-outs this Season appealed to him. Perhaps he should make a tour of the shires…
No, no, no! What a ridiculous idea. Despite his present boredom, he loved town. His wife must be socially adept, for she would join him at the apex of the polite world. And she must be intelligent. Debating with Elizabeth had been invigorating, for she brought refreshing views to any discussion.
Perhaps attending the intellectual soirees would allow him to meet more educated ladies. Or would that damage his credit?
“That blue becomes you, Lady Cunningham,” he commented in passing. “And please commend Miss Letitia’s maid. Waves frame her face better than ringlets, emphasizing her beauty and charm.”
“Thank you, my lord. Your taste is impeccable, as always.” She nearly simpered.
He moved on, though half of his escort stayed behind, praising Miss Letitia’s looks and filling her dance card. The girl deserved the attention. As the seventh of eight daughters, her dowry was small by London standards. Perhaps now she would find a congenial match.
He automatically smiled at several gossips, but his thoughts were far removed from the ballroom. His wife must also place his welfare above her own. He could not abide selfish chits like Elizabeth’s sister Cecilia, who had nearly trapped him into matrimony. Granted, Fosdale had been behind that scheme, but her willingness to go along with the plan was hard to forgive.
“That is a remarkable cravat, Lord Sedgewick.” Lord Pinter quivered, apparently with excitement. He had lost much of his hair while at Oxford. To distract attention from an unflattering wig and beanpole figure, he enhanced his physique with every possible form of padding, becoming the archetype for Cruikshank’s most cutting parody on the excesses of dandies. “What do you call it?”
“Variation on an original theme.”
The lad’s face fell into his own amateurish creation. “I don’t suppose you would demonstrate it.”
“Perhaps when you are more adept. In the meantime, practice the Oriental a few hundred times. Until you’ve mastered that, there is little point in trying something more intricate.”
He sighed as Pinter moved off. All this toadeating was becoming a bore. Perhaps doing something startling might recapture his usual amusement – replacing the tassels on his boots with jeweled fobs, maybe, or adding a lace flounce to his waistcoat. How many cubs would follow suit? How outrageous could he become before someone dared point out how ridiculous it all was?
But he set the thought aside. Jeremy Orville had just arrived. He had been looking for the lad all evening, but this was one conversation he did not care to share with others. Turning to the remaining puppies, he frowned.
“Hartford can provide introductions to Lady Harriet. She is our newest diamond.” He gestured across the ballroom.
They took the hint. Even those who did not head for Hartford melted away.
“A word in private, Orville,” he intoned, drawing the lad into an alcove as music soared above the babbling crowd.
“My lord!”
“Has no one taught you discretion?” he drawled.
“I don’t—”
Sedge ignored the protest and raised his quizzing glass, knowing it would magnify his icy glare. “Your reputation is in jeopardy, Orville. Society’s standards might sometimes seem contradictory, but you are in no position to ignore them.”
“What—”
He dropped his voice to a murmur that no one but Orville could hear. “Comparing Miss Higgins to a bulldog was an acceptable insult, but no gentleman would suggest she is suited only to whoring on the streets. Yet I would think you merely gauche had your comments been made privately to friends, or even in your club. But you voiced them to an opera dancer within hearing of a dozen others. A gentleman does not disparage members of his own class to outsiders. If you cannot control your tongue, either cease drinking or remove yourself from town.”
He reddened. “I did not realize—”
“No one ever does. I know you are irritated with the girl, for she embarrassed you in public. But the circumstances were unintentional, and no one is demanding you wed her, in any case. Thus her appearance and her reputation are not your concern. Trying to destroy her will redound upon you.”
“My apologies.”
“Apologies are worthless unless you learn from the mistake. If you cultivate spiteful thoughts, they will spill out whenever your control loosens, reducing your consequence.”
Sparing him further discourse, Sedge returned to the business of revelry. How had he become Society’s conscience? He had enjoyed taking Brummell’s place as an arbiter of fashion, but he had never asked to judge behavior as well as dress. Keeping the sprigs out of trouble was becoming tedious. He had to constantly ponder his impressions and judgments, for the power Society had placed in his hands was all too easy to abuse. And it set him apart, placing a small but very real gulf between him and the rest of the polite world.
He shivered. Eyes seemed to bore through his back, showering him with disapproval. Yet a glance around the ballroom revealed none but the usual figures.
Unexpectedly, memories of that companion washed over him, raising a ridiculous amount of heat. He should not have related the incident, though it made a delightful story. But recalling it incited new unruliness in his body. He would have to leave early and pass the remainder of the evening with his mistress.
CHAPTER THREE
Almont did not join Lord Sedgewick on his promenade around the ballroom. He exchanged gossip with several dowagers, then approached Joanna’s alcove as the waltz drew to a close. “Miss Patterson. And Lady Harriet. How beautiful you are tonight.”
Harriet giggled.
“An angel clad in gossamer and crowned in gold, whose eyes surpass the color of the sky and glisten with the luster of fine pearls,” he continued.
“You flatter me, my lord.” She simpered.
Joanna grimaced. Flattery didn’t begin to describe the butter boat Almont was dumping over Harriet’s head. She’d not heard such fustian since her brother Jeremy had tried to turn her up sweet after destroying her newest gown – a significant crime, for two years had elapsed since she’d acquired the previous one.
But was it truly fustian? She bit her lip in confusion as he uttered a dozen more compliments and Harriet fluttered her lashes. Society’s facade of ennui made it difficult to sound sincere. Almont might spout this nonsense to every girl in town. Or he might have singled Harriet out for his attentions. She couldn’t tell.
“I believe this is my set,” he concluded.
“So it is,” agreed Joanna. The musicians signaled a country dance.
She watched as Almont led Harriet out. He was precisely the sort of suitor Wicksfield would approve, yet he made Joanna uneasy. How was she to discover if he truly cared?
But thought of Almont fled as she again spotted Lord Sedgewick. His elegant form attracted her eyes, even when she tried to ignore him. And she wasn’t the only one. Half the other guests also watched his promenade about the ballroom.
Why did he draw so many eyes? What set him apart from everyone else, including the other dandies?
She frowned, trying to shape her impressions into words. He exuded an air that went beyond the clothes he wore. Polished but not shiny? Elegant but understated? Confident? Nothing seemed to fit. But he commanded attention. Her eyes would have strayed to him even if they had not met earlier. He cut such a perfect figure that everyone else seemed either overdressed or slightly shabby.
Too bad his behavior was less elegant than his appearance. Her frown deepened when he turned his glass on the Silverton twins. She had always considered quizzing to be hostile. And Lord Sedgewick’s use of the glass was more aggressive than most. Whatever he said reduced the pair to white-faced vapors. They fled the room the moment he moved on. She gritted her teeth. The girls might be brash, but that was no excuse to humiliate them in public. Under their rough edges, they were quite sweet.
Lord Sedgewick was a perfect example of why power was dangerous. Society had placed him on a pedestal, allowing him to dictate fashion and behavior. So he did. But using power arbitrarily was abusive. He cared little for how his actions affected others, apparently wielding it for his own satisfaction.
He exchanged greetings with others, the quizzing glass in constant use. But no one else seemed distressed. She had almost decided that she had misjudged him when he delivered a devastating set-down to Mr. Orville. Or so she assumed from the lad’s reaction.
Why do you keep doubting yourself? You were right the first time. He had ridiculed her despite knowing nothing about her. He had been appallingly rude to the Silvertons. And now he had attacked a pleasant, well-behaved young gentleman. If Orville had done something worthy of public censure, surely Lady Beatrice would have heard. The woman knew everything that happened in town and much of what happened in the countryside.
Odious man.
Her father had taught her to judge people by their behavior. Membership in the upper class did not automatically make a person worthy of respect. In fact, he held noblemen to a higher standard than others, claiming that their exalted positions demanded more responsibility.
Yet Society found that concept alien. They judged solely on birth. Fortune could raise or lower esteem, but never move one outside the boundaries of class. Power was theirs by right, to be exercised however they chose.
Every day brought new reminders that she neither belonged here nor understood those who did. Her mother might have been raised a lady, but her training had lacked the finer nuances of fashion and manners. Joanna’s was even worse.
“What did young Orville do?” demanded Lady Trotter.
Joanna shrugged.
“It must be licentious,” intoned Lady Debenham from her other side. “I would have heard if he’d been gaming to excess.”
“Do you think he debauched an innocent?” Lady Trotter fluttered her fan.
“No. He pays little attention to the eligibles. Perhaps he seduced another man’s mistress.” She frowned.
Joanna ignored their speculation, her eyes again following Lord Sedgewick. Only when he stopped to chat with a group of ladies did she wrest her gaze away. But she could hear snatches of their conversation whenever the music softened.
“Lady Daphne is an outrageous flirt,” declared a stout matron, setting her turban’s feathers aflutter as she shook her head.
“Only with Henley.” Lord Sedgewick sighed affe
ctedly. “Young love. They were quite pink-cheeked after a turn in the garden just now.”
Joanna glanced at the couple in question. Though not partnering each other, they had contrived to be in the same set. Their scorching glances heated the ballroom and recalled the feel of Lord Sedgewick’s body pressed firmly against her own.
“You must agree that Lutterworth’s pique was warranted.” Lord Sedgewick’s voice again cut through the music – or did everyone pause when he opened his mouth, creating a pocket of silence?
When music again drowned out his voice, Lady Debenham picked up the thread.
“Once he accepted Brumford, Lutterworth should never have brought his daughter to town. No girl in her right mind would prefer so dour a man to a fashionable dandy. Now he’s had to forbid Lastmark’s calls and castigate him for his public attentions.”
Joanna ignored her. The tale had been on every tongue since she’d arrived in London. Lord Sedgewick’s repetition confirmed that he was merely another shallow Society creature. How could he tolerate discussing the same things month after month, for years on end? Had he no substance at all? London gossip already bored her to tears, for conversation at the vicarage had always been lively.
Yet she should not be surprised. Society itself was shallow, so it would naturally elevate a shallow men to its apex. And her personal preferences didn’t count, for she would never belong here. Harriet’s ignorance fit this world better than her own education.
She tried to turn her thoughts to duty, but her eyes continued to stray toward Lord Sedgewick. His quizzing glass remained in constant use, punctuating his words, magnifying any disapproval, judging each person who joined the crowd around him. He seemed so aware of everyone in the ballroom that she was amazed he had not yet pounced on her to demand that she leave. The fact that she remained invisible to him proved she was beyond even the fringes of Society.
Harriet’s return interrupted her reflections. “This is the best ball yet!” she exclaimed the moment Almont moved on.
“Control yourself,” Joanna reminded her. “Displaying emotion is uncouth.”
