The Queen's Ball

by Anthea Lawson

  The Queen’s Ball

  Timeless Victorian Collection

  Anthea Lawson

  Rebecca Connolly

  Jennifer Moore

  Copyright © 2018 Mirror Press

  E-book edition

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles. These novels are works of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialog are products of the authors’ imaginations and are not to be construed as real.

  Interior Design by Heather Justesen

  Edited by Jennie Stevens, Kristy Stewart, Hopey Gardner, and Lisa Shepherd

  Cover design by Rachael Anderson

  Cover Photo Credit: Richard Jenkins Photography

  Published by Mirror Press, LLC

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  The Queen's Ball (Timeless Victorian Collection, #4)

  Timeless Victorian Collections

  Table of Contents

  Waltzed

  About Anthea Lawson

  Coming Home

  About Jennifer Moore

  Dear Reader,

  Sign up for our Timeless Anthology newsletter & receive a free book! Your email will not be shared, and you may unsubscribe at any time. We always appreciate reviews but there is no obligation.

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  The Timeless Romance Authors

  Timeless Victorian Collections

  Summer Holiday

  A Grand Tour

  The Orient Express

  The Queen’s Ball

  Timeless Regency Collections

  Autumn Masquerade

  A Midwinter Ball

  Spring in Hyde Park

  Summer House Party

  A Country Christmas

  A Season in London

  Falling for a Duke

  A Night in Grosvenor Square

  Road to Gretna Green

  Wedding Wagers

  Table of Contents

  Waltzed by Anthea Lawson

  Other Works by Anthea Lawson

  About Anthea Lawson

  A Love to Claim by Rebecca Connolly

  Other Works by Rebecca Connolly

  About Rebecca Connolly

  Coming Home by Jennifer Moore

  Other Works by Jennifer Moore

  About Jennifer Moore

  Waltzed

  Anthea Lawson

  Chapter One

  London, May 1851

  The soft gray drizzle of an English spring coated the half-open buds of the rhododendron flowers in the garden and glazed the windows of the late Viscount Tremont’s townhouse. However, his only daughter, Eleanor, was oblivious to the rain or the wet flowers or the chill in the library despite the coals on the hearth.

  She had a thick woolen shawl tucked about her shoulders and was deeply engrossed in the adventures of David Copperfield. Like the hero of Dickens’s latest novel, she, too, had known happiness as a child. And had subsequently been the unfortunate recipient of a stepfamily who was, as one might put it, less than kind.

  “Ellie!” Her stepsister Abigail burst into the library. “Whatever are you doing in here?”

  “Reading,” Ellie said, marking the page number in her mind with a silent sigh. She knew from experience that she would not return to her novel any time soon.

  Abigail tended to overexcitement, as redheads often did. Thankfully, she was not as spiteful as her older sister, especially when she and Ellie were alone. But whenever one of Ellie’s stepsisters caught her reading, they found some reason to interrupt her—usually to put her to work.

  “You must hurry up to your room,” Abby said. “Your hair looks dreadful.”

  With some effort, Ellie kept herself from reaching to pat the bun at the back of her head. No doubt it was a bit messy, but she’d learned that any sign of weakness in front of her stepsiblings—or worse, her stepmother—would result in heapings of scorn.

  “I’m not overly troubled about the state of my hair,” she said. “After all, it’s only me and Mr. Dickens.” She lifted her book in emphasis.

  Perhaps, this once, Abby would not insist that Ellie come untangle her hair ribbons or polish her jewelry or any of a thousand annoying little tasks, and Ellie might return to her novel in peace.

  Abby made an exasperated noise. “But that’s just it. You have a caller!”

  “I what?” That was unexpected. Ellie never had callers. With a prickle of interest, she closed her book and laid it on the side table.

  Was this a cruel trick or was Abby telling the truth? Her other stepsister, Delia, would certainly enjoy raising Ellie’s hopes. It would be like her to send Ellie hurrying to her room to make herself presentable, then laughing when she entered the empty parlor to find no one awaiting her after all.

  “I’ve been trying to tell you.” Abby crossed her arms. “Why don’t you ever listen? No wonder Mama is always displeased with you.”

  Privately, Ellie thought the source of that displeasure had more to do with her existence as the late viscount’s only child and the discovery that Papa had apparently left a much smaller fortune than expected upon his death. Not enough to keep a viscountess and her daughters in any kind of style, as her stepmother often reminded her—as if it were Ellie’s fault that her father had not, in fact, been as well-off as they had all thought.

  Oh, Papa.

  Tears threatened to clog her throat, and she swallowed them back.

  “Hurry!” Abby said, tapping her foot. “You oughtn’t keep him waiting too long.”

  “Who is it?”

  “A gentleman—I didn’t recognize him.”

  “And he asked for me?” Perhaps it had something to do with Papa’s estate, although any solicitor would call upon her stepmother and not Ellie. And besides, all that had been settled months ago.

  “I heard him ask for you specifically,” Abby said, a hint of contempt in her voice. “But if you’d rather not believe me and prefer to make a fool of yourself . . .”

  “Very well,” Ellie said. “Tell Mr. Atkins—”

  “Miss Eleanor,” the butler said from the threshold, as if summoned by the mention of his name. “You have a caller. I’ve put him in the front parlor.”

  Abby shot her a scathing look. “I don’t know why I even bother with you, Ellie.”

  With that, she tossed her head and whisked out of the room, nearly running over the portly Mr. Atkins in the process.

  He hastily stood aside, then nodded at Ellie. “I’ll tell Lord Newland you’ll be down shortly?”

  “Please do.”

  She’d no notion who Lord Newland might be, unless he were somehow related to the Newland family she’d known several years ago. Papa and Mr. Newland had been fast friends until the family had left for India. She’d exchanged letters with Kit, the son, for nearly two years until their correspondence trailed off into silence.

  In truth, for quite a while she’d cherished notions of marrying the black-haired boy who’d been such a merry companion in her youth. Even after they’d removed to India, she spent time reading about the country and daydreaming about living in that bright and exotic land, Kit at her side.

  Then Papa had remarried Lady Tremont, which had been somewhat trying. Not much later, he’d died, and nothing mattered anymore—except battling through the fog of grief surrounding her. And running to do her stepfamily’s bidding, which only amplified her misery.

  As soon as the butler left the library, Ellie glanced at her reflection in the mirror over the mantel. Oh d
ear—Abby had been correct. Her pale hair was straggling out of her bun, a hairpin hanging from one of the fine strands like some strange spider over her shoulder.

  There was a smudge of soot on her cheekbone, ashy against the pallor of her complexion. She glanced down at her wrist to see a matching smear from where she must have brushed against the hearth when she’d poked up the coals. She certainly couldn’t meet her mysterious caller in such a state of dishevelment.

  Quietly, she peeked into the corridor. It was empty, thank goodness. Luck was with her, and she encountered no one as she hurried down to the end and nipped up the servants’ staircase. She really oughtn’t to use the smaller stairs, but it was a much faster—and more discreet—method of gaining her room than using the main staircase.

  Far less chance of encountering her stepfamily on the way as well. Ever since Papa’s death, it was easier to avoid them rather than bear their spite. The few times she’d encountered maids in the stairwell, they’d stood respectfully aside. Ellie pretended not to see the pity in their eyes or hear them whispering about how dreadful it all was.

  Back in her room, she washed her face and repinned her bun, taking care to tuck away the loose strands. There was no time to change her gown—and at any rate, she had nothing but dreary mourning dresses crowding her wardrobe. Whoever was calling upon her must take her as she was.

  Chapter Two

  Lord Christopher Newland tugged up the collar of his coat and tried to ignore the clammy chill seeping into his bones. England was ridiculously cold, even in May. In Assam, it was already hot, all the winter clothing was packed away and the monsoon season was already on the horizon. He’d forgotten how chilly his homeland was. And damp. He turned to stare absently out the rain-spattered window of Viscount Tremont’s parlor.

  The late Viscount Tremont, that was. Christopher was sorry he’d not returned to England in time to call upon the man while he was alive. He had recollections of a rotund, jovial fellow who had always treated him kindly, even when he and the viscount’s daughter, Eleanor, got into scrapes together. Which was often.

  But at least he might pay his respects to Ellie. He was glad of the excuse to see her—and not only because he planned to return to India with a wife. He’d always been fond of his childhood companion and hoped she might still harbor some warmth toward him, despite the passage of time.

  “Kit?”

  He turned, recognizing Ellie’s voice immediately, and the smile of greeting on his lips died. She looked dreadful.

  Of course, it had been nearly six years since he’d seen her—but this pale young woman with bruised-looking eyes was a far cry from his memories of golden, laughing Eleanor Tremont.

  He strode forward and took her hand, noting how very white her fingers were against his sun-browned skin. “Yes, it’s me. It’s so good to see you, Ellie, though I was sorry to hear of your father’s passing. Are you well?”

  Clearly, she was not, but he didn’t know what else to say. Although her father had been gone for over seven months, she was still garbed in mourning. The black crepe of her dress made her pallor even more pronounced, and his heart squeezed in his chest to see the unhappiness in her eyes.

  She cast her gaze to the carpet and carefully removed her hand from his.

  “I am well enough, considering. Thank you.” She waved to a pair of armchairs. “Would you like to sit? I can ring for tea.”

  “I can’t stay.” And honestly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. This sad young lady was not the girl he’d been hoping to see. “I just came by to offer my respects.”

  It had been foolish to expect to find the sunny companion of his youth, especially given the circumstances. A young woman plunged deep in mourning was hardly a suitable candidate for matrimony. With regret, he mentally crossed her name off the top of his list.

  The charming, adventurous Ellie Tremont—the girl who might have accepted his suit and gladly accompanied him to India—was gone.

  “Ellie!” A stern-looking woman with gray-shot dark hair stepped into the room. She, too, was dressed in mourning, but the severe black and white suited her. “Whatever are you doing, entertaining a gentleman caller alone? I thought you were better bred than that.”

  A flush rose in Ellie’s cheeks, two spots of color that quickly faded.

  “I am sorry, my lady.” She bobbed an apologetic curtsy. “I was about to ring for the maid. Allow me to introduce Mr. Christopher Newland. We knew each other as children. Or, wait, is it Lord now?”

  “Yes—now that my father is, rather unexpectedly, the new Marquess of Kennewick.” He gave her a gentle smile.

  Luckily, his older brother—who’d never liked India and preferred to remain in England—would inherit the burden of that title. Still, their father and mother would have to return to London for a time, leaving Kit in charge of their interests in Manohari.

  Which was why time was of the essence. He must find an agreeable wife and make the journey back to India before the heaviest rains set in, rendering travel nigh impossible.

  “A pleasure to meet you, my lord.” The widow extended her hand so that Kit could bow over it. “I am Lady Tremont. I must apologize for whatever poor welcome Eleanor might have given you. This household is usually better mannered than that.”

  Despite his irritation at Lady Tremont’s rudeness toward his old friend, Kit dipped his head. “Mourning can be a difficult time. I understand completely. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Tremont, and do forgive me for intruding. However, I must be off.”

  The viscountess gripped his hand, allowing him no retreat. “Certainly not. You must meet my daughters before you go.” She turned to Ellie, her voice hardening. “Go fetch your stepsisters. At once.”

  As if she were nothing more than a servant, Ellie nodded and hurried from the room. Brows furrowed, Kit watched her go. Something did not seem right in the Tremont household.

  Paying no attention to his reaction, Lady Tremont pulled him over to the settee and all but forced him down beside her. “Tell me about yourself, Lord Christopher. How you are acquainted with the Tremont family?”

  There was an avaricious light in her eyes, but Kit had dealt with grasping mamas before—particularly since his father had inherited the title. He explained to Lady Tremont the scholarly bond between his and Ellie’s fathers and how the two families would often visit one another with their children in tow—especially after Ellie’s mother died.

  “Then you see her as somewhat of a sister, I imagine,” Lady Tremont said, a complacent note in her voice. “How kind of you to call upon her. As you can see, her father’s death has affected us all terribly. Luckily, my fortune is large enough to sustain us in comfort. Alas, poor Ellie has no dowry.”

  He frowned at her words, and not only because it was tasteless to bring money into a conversation with a new acquaintance. Without a marriage portion, Ellie was now doubly disqualified from his list of prospective brides. While he did not need an heiress per se, it was essential he marry a girl with a sizeable dowry.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

  Indeed, it was surprising news. Despite his somewhat eccentric nature, Viscount Tremont had always seemed sensible about managing his estate. It must have been a blow to Ellie to discover she had no dowry. No wonder she seemed so downcast.

  Lady Tremont leaned forward. “If your families were such great friends, why have we not met you before?”

  “My father accepted a position with the East India Company. When I graduated from Eton, I joined him in Assam.”

  And a happy change that had been. In addition to finding India quite to his tastes, Kit had discovered a talent for organization that was indispensable as he helped his father with various ventures. The most recent, a tea plantation in the fertile highlands, promised to be a rousing success once the bushes were ready for harvest.

  But with his father unexpectedly inheriting a marquessate, the management of the plantation was now in Kit’s hands. He took that responsibility q
uite seriously—and not only because it would make or break their fortunes abroad.

  A commotion at the doorway served as a welcome distraction from Lady Tremont’s interrogation. Kit rose as two young women—presumably the widow’s daughters—entered the room. Ellie trailed behind them, a pale shadow.

  “My darlings.” Lady Tremont stood and held out her hands. “Come meet our distinguished guest, Lord Christopher Newland.”

  Her daughters joined her, one on each side. Neither of them were in mourning. In fact, they each wore bright colors that seemed to relegate Ellie to the background even more.

  The girl to Lady Tremont’s left sported a yellow-green gown that accentuated her red hair—natural red, not stained with henna, as Kit was used to seeing. She gave him a curious look, her brown eyes wide with interest.

  The other daughter wore bright blue and was dark-haired, like her mother, with the same disdainful tilt to her nose. And the same appraising expression, as though weighing Kit’s value to determine whether he might be advantageous to her in some way.

  “This is my eldest, Delia,” Lady Tremont said, nodding to the dark-haired girl.

  Delia curtsied low, clearly deciding he was worthy of her favor. “A pleasure to meet you, my lord.”

  Lady Tremont indicated the redhead. “And my other daughter, Abigail.”

  “A tremendous honor, indeed.” Abigail dropped him an even deeper curtsy, then shot her sister a gloating look, as though it had been a contest of some kind and she’d emerged the victor.

  “Charmed to meet you both,” Kit said. “I hope in the future I might become better acquainted, but, regrettably, I must bid you farewell. I’ve an appointment with my father’s solicitor.”

  Which was true—although the meeting wasn’t for some hours yet. But this visit had taken an uncomfortable turn into marriage mart territory, and he had no intention of adding Ellie’s stepsisters to his mental list of prospective brides.