He sighed and picked up his riding gloves before taking his leave of the room. He desperately prayed he could pull off the evening’s charade. If they were all to escape scandal, it was imperative that all partygoers believe whole-heartedly he and Lark had been courting long before his father’s death. If there were even a hint that he had not mourned sufficiently this past half-year, it would be the end of them all.
He made it below stairs and waited in the study for Lark to ready herself. She took a veritable age, and he wondered if it were because she was a woman, or because she wanted to stall.
Finally, a rap came at the door, and Lark entered with Rebekka trailing behind. He was struck speechless. Her smile undid him to the full, and his tough wall of defenses crumbled. He closed his eyes and opened them slowly.
“Good evening, Miss Lark. You are an exceptionally pink picture,” he managed to get past his dry throat. “I daresay you will steal the ball.”
She politely bent a knee and bestowed on him an even larger smile. “You are most kind,” she signed.
~*∞*~
For a brief moment, Lark was glad of the fact that she was unable to speak, for had she been expected to reply, she would surely have said something to disgrace herself.
At her first vision of Jonathon in formalwear, she was taken completely unaware by the responsive way her body reacted. In truth, she was not completely positive exactly what she experienced. Her stomach was overcome with flutterings, and her heartbeat pounded so loudly that she was afraid Jonathon might hear it.
His tan pantaloons molded especially to his well-muscled legs, and upon noticing such, Lark felt the heat of blush rise up her neck. What, should he guess her reaction to such observation—or that she had such observation at all?
The snug cut of his coat served to emphasize the broadness of his shoulders, and as the gilt buttons down the front caught the lamp light, Lark couldn’t help but notice the expanse of his hard chest. She quickly averted her gaze.
“You are ready to depart?” His words brought back Lark’s mind, and her eyes, once again, found the courage to seek him. She nodded, tentatively at the onset, then more pronounced as she realized it would do no good to appear over-nervous.
“Very well.” His gaze moved to Rebekka who stood silently behind her miss. “Go and confirm that the carriage awaits. Miss Lark and I shall meet you outside in a trice.”
“But—”
“Don’t mention formalities in this house, Rebekka. You can resume your watch over Miss Lark as soon as we are arrived at Almack’s. For now, act as you have for months past.”
“Yes, my lord,” Rebekka replied obediently, although Lark heard her mumbling something unintelligible as she took her leave.
Jonathon approached Lark. “So, are your nerves atwitter?” He smiled at her and the birds took flight in her stomach again.
“Not at all,” she replied with her hands.
He laughed outright. “You are not a very good liar, Miss Lark. Even without a voice to betray you, your eyes speak volumes mere words never could.” He took her hand in his own and stared at where they were joined for several moments before he spoke. “We have been quite scandalous here at home. I have become quite accustomed to speaking to you without chaperon, to being able to take your hand when those eyes of yours look as if you need comfort. It is going to be best difficult to remember proprieties while we are with other people.” His gaze rose to hers. “You have spoiled me.”
Lark did not know how to react. She stood dazed, her mind full of nothing, yet everything. She couldn’t remember experiencing more joy or more confusion in all her days. Finally, she forced a smile, and that seemed to satisfy him.
“Let us go, then, shall we?” He left her momentarily to retrieve his chapeau bras, then slipped her hand over his arm and escorted her to the carriage where Rebekka and the groom were already waiting.
The pageantry was greater than any vision Lark could have imagined. As they entered the famous assembly rooms on King’s Street, St. James, a bolster of activity greeted them. If she had been one of speech, she surely would have been struck dumb with the carriage ride into the heart of London and the equipage that carried them in such luxury. But even that was not as lavish as the elegant eveningwear of both the ladies and the gentlemen. She did not even take exception to the bland decoration of the hall.
Upon their entrance, Cyril dashed over immediately. He offered his hand to Jonathon and they greeted each other in silence. Cyril then turned his gaze to Lark and grinned at her most mischievously. He bent at the waist slightly. “Good evening, Miss Lark. It is a pleasure to see you again.”
Lark was taken quite aback by his formal manner. She hadn’t thought it possible for the most outspoken Mr. Rexley to be subdued.
She feared this was only the first of many surprises she would endure before the evening expired.
She curled the corners of her lips in a gracious salute and, to her incredulity, Cyril leaned closer to her ear. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I shan’t let the vultures devour you.”
He withdrew from her, and she glanced under lowered lids to Jonathon at her side. The crease in his frowning brow and the manner in which he shot daggers with his eyes at the retreating Mister Rexley told her he was not a little overset.
“I shall have a word with him before the cock crows,” he mumbled blackly. He moved his gaze to Lark. “I must apologize for my brother’s lack of manners. He is too much.” He scanned the occupants of the room. “This eve should be kindly done,” he said. He smiled down at her. “Would you like a refreshment?”
She nodded, more out of courtesy than of a true need for something refreshing. She took time to scan the room and pointed to an unoccupied spot in a near corner. She hoped he understood her meaning, for she wished to avoid using her hands.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said in low tones, and she wondered for a moment if he had heard his brother’s words. Not wanting to ask, she just blinked at him until he left her for the refreshments bar.
She and Rebekka made their way unheeded to the neutral corner that Lark hoped would serve to protect her from too much introduction.
Before any time had passed, an elegantly dressed young miss and an older woman approached Lark. The elder of the two, whose graying hair was topped with a bonnet of plumes the breadth of which Lark had never seen, greeted her with a smile. “I am the Marchioness of Abberley. May I present my daughter, Margaret.”
Lark smiled warmly hoping that the small gesture would appease the marchioness and the ladies would take their leave. She was, however, largely disappointed. She wrung her gloved hands while her mind whirred with what to do next.
“This is such a wonderful party,” Miss Margaret said. “Mister Rexley did a bang up job on the…” She broke off her sentence at the sharp look of her mother.
The Marichioness’s gaze softened as she focused once more on Lark. “My daughter is but a child yet to make her come-out. Her manners slip.”
Lark could not tell where the girl’s manners had slipped. It had sounded more as if she were of a mind to offer a compliment. Lark’s heart constricted. She had so much to learn, she was certain she would bungle the job and cause Jonathon to be a laughing stock.
A silence stretched between the ladies until finally a subject was broached that Lark could neither ignore nor answer with silent smiles and nods.
“I wished to reassure you we do not listen to gossipy rumors considering your betrothal to Lord Somerset. Mr. Rexley informed all that you are not formally announced and that yourself and Lord Somerset were well acquainted before the late Lord Peter breathed his last. Rest his soul.” The marchioness glanced heavenward momentarily, and, unbidden, Lark’s gaze followed that movement.
“Your gown is quite becoming. Praytell from which mantuamaker did you procure it?” The marchioness changed subjects as easily as one would discard a morning gown in the afternoon.
Lark swallowed hard and glanced at Rebekka for he
lp. Rebekka raised an eyebrow in as much to say, “you cannot hide forever,” and Lark responded by answering the Marchioness of Abberley with her hands.
The older lady immediately took a retreating step, staring at Lark’s moving hands as if they were snakes upon Medusa’s head. Lark’s movements slowed until they were completely ceased.
Rebekka began to translate. “I say, your gown is exquisite itself. Surely you do not seek a re …place … ment …for … your….”
The marchioness’s brown eyes grew large and her mouth fell open so wide Lark feared the woman’s bottom lip would graze the floor. Her lips fluttered erratically until the top one finally stilled and allowed the bottom to quiver alone.
“W—we, we must, we must, must circulate,” she stammered. Taking a firm grip on her daughter’s arm, she led away the girl in haste. Lark heard her say, “The chatter was not all mistaken.”
Lark inhaled a considerable breath and held it as if it might be her last. She squeezed her eyes closed, willing the biting tears to dry and the marchioness’s horrified countenance to be wiped free of her mind’s eye. Her efforts, save for in the matter of tears, were in vain.
She let out her breath, but found she was still living the nightmare. She wished nothing more than to flee the awful place before the Marchioness of Abberley had the notion to tell everyone of the unfortunate circumstance.
Lark shook her head; she could not rid herself of the remembrance of the Marchioness’s bulging eyes. She turned her eye to Rebekka only when the abigail placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Are you fine?” Rebekka queried, obviously a little overset herself.
Lark nodded. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t expected this type of reception. It was more that, even though she had presumed it, expectation wasn’t quite the same as actually experiencing it.
Her gaze roamed the room in search of Jonathon. She had every confidence that were he at her side, such coarseness would not occur. She found him engaged in conversation, an expanse of room separating them as impenetrable as the English Channel. He deftly held a glass of something in one hand and a small plate of hors d’oeuvres in the other. As a servant walked by, she noticed him place the glass on the tray.
~*∞*~
The crystal clicked on the silver tray as Jonathon replaced the flute. He was in high dudgeon. He had observed Lark and the pretentious Marchioness of Abberley, and had witnessed Lark’s complexion grow pale, her face grow stiff. He wanted nothing more than to close the distance that lay between them, but four of his so-called “best” acquaintances were keeping him at bay with their myriad questions and prattle.
He turned his attention back to Sean McGillicuty, a Scottish earl of questionable scruples when taking into consideration the rash of ladies he courted and discarded. He was not a handsome man but had a considerable fortune to which all the ladies seemed to flock.
McGillicuty neither wondered, nor cared about any of them, and Jonathon thought that the man was a complete cad. Now the Scot had turned his attentions to Lark, Jonathon not only thought the man a cad, but also a marksman’s target as well.
“She’s a pink lass, that one,” he was saying, his back to Lark, but evidently knowledgeable regarding her appearance from the invisible eyes in the back of his head.
Jonathon nodded absently, growing more peevish with each word McGillicuty uttered.
“Aye, I winna mind finding myself a lass who donned so pretty a face ever’ morn.”
Jonathon shot him a black look. “Your manners are outside of enough, McGillicuty. I shall have you know that I intend to declare myself to the fair Miss Lark, and if you do not cease this infernal smearing of her virtuous nature I shall be forced to call you out.”
McGillicuty’s round, freckled face momentarily went like a stone, but without much delay, he boomed a laugh that could be heard over the entire room. Eyes turned to briefly attend the huddle of men, and molten anger billowed through Jonathon with renewed intensity.
He looked at another of his acquaintance, Roger Whitman, a respectable gentleman. “Keep this man away from me for the rest of the evening; else I fear I shall do us all an injustice.” His wrathful glare moved to McGillicuty. “Well, not all,” he added ominously, “for some it will be justice.” He returned to a polite tone. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a lady to attend.”
He stormed off, and began his journey back to Lark. He was but a quarter-way across the room when the Lord and Lady of Putnumshire stopped him in mid-stride.
“This is a lovely soirée, Lord Somerset,” the lady said.
“Indeed,” her husband replied. “I say, do you plan to attend Tatt’s on the morrow?”
Jonathon was absently staring at Putnumshire’s sideburns. He did not know why they drew his attention, save for the fact that he supposed they were a new addition to the lord’s countenance.
“…well-bred stallion.”
Jonathon realized at once that he had missed Putnumshire’s conversation completely. “I beg your pardon, but I must get these lovely refreshments to Miss Lark Blackburn.” He nodded and bestowed the elderly Lady Putnumshire with a broad smile. “Hope to see you at Tatt’s presently,” he said absently to Lord Putnumshire, then hurried off, leaving them staring after him.
Cyril approached him next. “Saw you over there with McGillicuty. Thought you didn’t care for him.”
Jonathon threw Cyril a scathing look. “I do not care for him. My next obvious query being, why did you extend him an invitation?”
Cyril shrugged and looked at Jonathon with arched brows. “I couldn’t very well exclude the wealthiest earl in Scotland, could I? That just would not do. Look at Lady Cowper over there,” he pointed with a flick of his head in the direction of the entry. “What would she and Lady Jersey say were we to retain Almack’s and not have the guest list just so?”
“Perhaps you should have thought twice about holding this nonsensical ball in the first place.”
“I assure you, I thought of this not only twice, but several times while devising the plan.”
“The plan for what!” Jonathon’s voice rose in frustration and he quickly softened it as he noticed the attention it drew. “Plan for what?” he repeated civilly.
“For introducing Lark into society, giving you the opportunity to do her up grand.”
Jonathon’s hackles calmed. He shook his head slowly and looked at his meddling brother in resignation. “You truly amaze me at times, Cyril.”
Cyril beamed boyishly. “Thank you,” he replied before leaving Jonathon to his own devices.
The music began, and Jonathon thought that finally he would be left alone long enough to return to Lark without further interruption. As couples joined the quadrille, Jonathon made his way along the periphery of the dancers.
Focusing on the dancing as he closed the gap between himself and Lark, he was forced to a halt by a voice almost directly at his ear. Jonathon’s attention jolted to the man in front of him.
Nigel Aubury.
Nigel Aubury, Duke of Uttington, and current heir resident of Blackwell House, was a short, pudgy man. His eyes were an odd color green, and when he looked at you, Jonathon had always thought, they took on a rheumy sheen that left one wondering whether he was on the brink of girlish tears. To enhance reasons to avoid the duke, the man had an annoying habit of conversing in sentences that were not complete, and one had to be quick-witted to follow his thought patterns.
Jonathon felt a little sympathy for the man. He had no family left—save for Lark, Jonathon mentally amended—and he was such an odd-looking man, liking him came with difficulty.
This night, Jonathon bestowed Aubury with a sincere smile. “Good evening.”
“Old chap. Extend my condolences. Apologies for not attending the funeral. Had business to attend. Care to introduce me to your lovely lady? Maid looks familiar. Don’t s’pose you know from whence she came? Where did you meet the lady?” He sniffed considerably, pulled out a handkerchief, and began rubbi
ng his bulbous nose with vigor before stuffing the silk back into its pocket with a wide, hairy hand. “Dratted cold. Happens all the time. What say you? Introduce me or must I seek out Rexley?” He chuckled as if he were as funny as a jester.
Jonathon did not laugh. The music was drawing to a close and he wanted to reach Lark before a throng distracted him once again.
“Come along,” he told Aubury, “I shall introduce you to the lady.” He inched his way past the rotund gentleman and said prayers silently that he might be successful in reaching his betrothed without further delay.
At his side, Aubury chatted away about nothing in particular and everything of inconsequence. Jonathon had neither the mind nor the inclination to decipher the man’s prattle.
He caught Lark’s attention as he neared, and he could see the obvious relief in her eyes the moment his gaze locked with hers. Remorse flooded him for having left her alone at the onset. He should have had more sense, should have been more understanding of her situation. She must feel quite like a duck without a pond, and he had left her to her own devices. He deserved to be scourged—and Cyril, too, for that matter. After all, he was responsible for this entire loathsome evening.
“Known the lady long? Six months over, for sure.”
Jonathon ignored the question, having grown quite tired of it. It seemed the occupants of this room were more interested in how long he and Lark had been acquainted than they were of whether they intended to be wed. He supposed, thoroughly provoked, they had already made up their minds regarding the latter and now they needed the other morsel of information in order to sweeten the succulence of the gossip.
Chapter Eighteen
Lark flashed Jonathon a stiff smile as he came to stand directly in front of her. He knew she was upset as he handed her the plate of refreshments, but could do nothing to appease her. He returned her emotionless smile. “I am pleased to introduce Nigel Aubury, Duke of Uttington, and…”
His voice trailed off as a stomach-wrenching thought crossed his mind. Before now, he had thought only of others recognizing Lark, it had never entered his mind that she may remember someone, and thus so, expose herself to dangers he had yet to uncover himself.
The Resurrection of Lady Somerset Page 14
