Waltzed

by Anthea Lawson

  She glanced up at him, and he thought he detected a hint of entreaty in her expression.

  “The day after tomorrow?” he asked, somewhat impetuously. It was only for old times’ sake, of course. One more visit, and his duty would be discharged.

  “That would be lovely,” the widow said. “We shall look for you in the afternoon. And would you stay to dinner?”

  “Please say yes.” Dark-haired Delia stepped forward. “I would simply adore hearing of your travels abroad.”

  “Indeed.” Abigail nodded vigorously and moved up beside her sister. “I’ve no doubt they’re utterly fascinating.”

  Behind her stepsisters’ backs, Ellie’s brows rose, and she gave him the slanting look he recalled from childhood—the one that meant trouble lay ahead. Her face was transformed: a twinkle of mischief in her eye, the slightest lift to her lips. It was a welcome change, and he didn’t mind that it was at his expense.

  “I would be delighted to dine with you,” he said.

  It seemed he was willing to endure what promised to be a dinner full of dreadful attempts at flirtation if it would banish the shadows from Eleanor Tremont’s eyes. Only because we are long-standing friends, he told himself.

  And while he searched for a suitable bride, he could spare an afternoon to make Ellie smile. Happily, his father and mother were in good health, but he could imagine the devastation he’d feel if one of them passed. Poor Ellie had lost not one, but both of her parents.

  “Splendid,” Lady Tremont said. “We shall expect you at five o’clock on Thursday.”

  “Thank you for visiting,” Ellie said, finally moving forward to face him. “It was good to see you again.”

  “Of course.” He smiled at her.

  “We mustn’t keep you, my lord,” Lady Tremont said briskly. “Allow me to see you out.”

  She stepped in front of Ellie, took his arm, and steered him toward the door. Ah, well. Lady Tremont might be the most maneuvering mama in London, but he was in no danger of falling into her snares. There were meddlesome mothers aplenty in India—in Calcutta, of course, but even in his home station of Manohari. He’d learned to watch his step, moving as carefully as a mongoose in a garden full of cobras.

  Under the widow’s watchful eye, the butler gave Kit his hat and gloves, then opened the door. Kit unfurled his umbrella. The rain made a gentle, almost friendly patter over the surface.

  “Good day, my lord,” Lady Tremont said. “I know I speak for my daughters as well when I say we very much look forward to seeing you again.”

  “Of course.” Kit wondered if she included Ellie in that reckoning. Probably not.

  As he turned down the sidewalk, he glanced at the parlor window to see Delia and Abigail pressed close to the glass. Abigail waved furiously while her sister lifted her hand and gave him a demure waggle of her fingers.

  Ellie stood off to one side. She tilted her head and shot him another pointed look, which made him grin. Plainly, there was little love lost between her and her stepsisters—and from what he’d seen, he could hardly blame her. Dinner on Thursday might be awkward, but he’d no doubt it would be equally entertaining.

  3

  “Did you see that?” Abby clasped her hands under her chin and twirled about. “He smiled at me!”

  “It wasn’t at you, ninny.” Delia gave her a withering glance. “Obviously he was looking at me.”

  Ellie bit her tongue and said nothing.

  It was curious how quickly she’d felt the old childhood rapport with Kit rekindle; as though they’d just come in from a bit of mischief, like catching frogs to frighten the maids or sword fighting with sticks in the hayloft. They’d been a pair of rapscallions, as his mother had put it. And oh, how Ellie had missed him—missed his whole family—when they’d left for India.

  But now he was back, and a lord into the bargain. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Yes, it had been kind of him to pay a call, and even kinder to agree to come to dinner, but would his new station preclude them from becoming friends again? And even if it did not, was there any hope her stepmother would allow that to happen?

  It had been marvelous to see him, though, Ellie had to admit. She felt as though a crisp wind had blown in, pushing away the haze of sorrow she’d been stumbling through. He’d nearly made her laugh, and she couldn’t recall the last time she’d felt that way. Certainly not since Papa died. She was glad he was coming to dinner in two days, even if it meant he must endure the fawning attentions of her stepsisters.

  “Girls,” Lady Tremont said, returning to the parlor and giving her daughters a stern look. “Contain yourselves. There is nothing a gentleman finds more unbecoming than a lady who has obviously set her cap for him.”

  “But, Mama—” Abby began.

  “You in particular, Abigail, must learn to curb your emotions. Lord Christopher is a catch, no question, but subtlety will win the day, my darling.”

  Ellie folded her arms, an unhappy knot forming in her stomach. Of course Lady Tremont wouldn’t allow a friendship between the stepdaughter she detested and the son of a marquess. And she wouldn’t rest until one of her own daughters had managed to snare him into a betrothal.

  A fate Ellie wouldn’t wish on any gentleman, let alone Kit.

  The only way to save him from Lady Tremont’s machinations would be to pretend she had no interest in renewing their friendship. When he came to dinner, she must be cold and distant. She must extinguish that spark of camaraderie between them.

  The thought made her throat tighten with dismay, but there was no other option. Kit Newland must depart her life again, for both their sakes.

  “My lady.” Mr. Atkins bowed from the parlor threshold. “An invitation just arrived. I thought it advisable to inform you posthaste.”

  He held out a silver salver bearing a letter opener and a cream-colored envelope. The seal of Queen Victoria was prominently displayed on the creamy vellum, and Abby gasped audibly.

  “A royal summons, Mama! How thrilling.”

  Lady Tremont took it with every evidence of calm, but her eyes gleamed with excitement. She slit the envelope and pulled out a card embossed with the royal coat of arms.

  “The Lord Chamberlain is commanded by The Queen,” she read, “to invite Lady Tremont and her daughters to a Costume Ball evoking the reign of Charles II on Friday the thirteenth of June at half past nine o’clock. Buckingham Palace.”

  “What fun,” Abby exclaimed. “I do hope Lord Christopher is invited as well.”

  With a pleased expression, Lady Tremont set the invitation back on the salver. “We must visit the modiste at once to have our ball gowns designed.”

  “I will look well in a Stuart-inspired gown,” Delia said smugly.

  “Does that mean we are out of mourning?” Ellie asked, glancing down at her dark skirts.

  The requisite six months had come and gone, but she’d been so shrouded in despair she hadn’t given any thought to putting off her blacks.

  Her stepsisters, however, had only worn mourning for the first month, “to spare the expense of an entirely new wardrobe,” Lady Tremont had said.

  For herself, Ellie had only been allowed three new mourning gowns and then was given the cast-off clothing of her stepsisters with the expectation she would alter them to fit. Never the most skilled seamstress, she had admittedly not done her best work with the alterations. It was difficult to sew a fine seam when one’s vision continually blurred with tears.

  “I don’t believe you were invited to the ball,” Delia said, lifting her nose. “You’re not Lady Tremont’s daughter by blood.”

  “I am by marriage, however,” Ellie retorted, her fingers curling into her palms. “And I’m certain my godmother will support me in this, now that she’s returned from the Continent.”

  Sadly, Baroness Merriweather was a rather absent, as well as absent-minded, woman. She had been an old family friend on Ellie’s mother’s side—thus her role as Ellie’s godmother—but after Mama died whe
n Ellie was young, the baroness became more of a myth than a matronly figure in Ellie’s life.

  She would resurface every few years, bringing some impractical trinket from abroad and remarking on how much Ellie had grown, then disappear again without notice. But her last visit had been only a few months ago, to offer her condolences. And she had told Ellie to ask if she needed anything.

  Whether or not she would remember that offer was another question, but it was past time for Ellie to assert herself within the Tremont family once more. She would carry the shadow of grief for Papa in her heart forever, but seeing Kit had reminded her that life continued. The sun rose, the earth spun, and it was possible to smile again.

  On no account would she let her stepfamily spoil that for her or bar her from attending social events on some flimsy pretext. No matter how much Lady Tremont might try.

  Her stepmother sniffed in displeasure. “No doubt Lady Merriweather has better things to do than listen to your groundless complaints, Ellie. Let me remind you that stubbornness is very unbecoming in a young lady.”

  “Still.” Ellie lifted her chin. “I am a daughter of this household.”

  True, if unfortunate,” Delia said quietly.

  Lady Tremont’s nostrils flared. “Very well. I decree we are no longer in mourning for your dear departed father, God rest his soul. And you may attend the Queen’s Ball.”

  “Thank you—”

  “If you manage to procure something suitable to wear. I’m sure I needn’t remind you that there is no money to furnish you with a costume. But I’m sure with your sewing skills, you’ll be able to make a very fine ball gown.”

  Delia tittered, and Abby laughed as well, though at least she had the decency to muffle her giggle behind one hand. The remark stung, as it was meant to, and Ellie felt embarrassment warm her cheeks.

  “I will be ready,” she said stiffly.

  Though truly, she had no notion of how she would manage to come up with an elaborate Stuart-era costume in under three weeks. Still, she refused to be daunted.

  It seemed she must pay a call on Lady Merriweather and ask her to be true to her promise to help. Whether she remembered giving it or not.

  4

  Kit paused before the front door of the Tremont household and glanced down at the bouquet he carried. Pink peonies and white roses. He meant it for Ellie, of course, and had been hoping to find daisies and cornflowers, having a recollection of her weaving flower crowns from the fields.

  But those blooms were not yet in full season, and at any rate he suspected Lady Tremont would turn up her nose at such a common bouquet. He also suspected that the widow would dislike seeing him pay particular attention to Ellie, and much as he relished the idea of tweaking the viscountess’s feathers, he worried that Ellie would suffer the consequence.

  So he had settled on a lovely, impersonal posy of flowers for the entire household. With a single daisy hidden in the center, much against the wishes of the florist. Kit hoped Ellie would understand the secret reference.

  “My lord.” The butler opened the door. “Welcome. The ladies are expecting you in the drawing room.”

  Kit nodded and surrendered his hat and coat. He followed the man down the wide hall, bypassing the smaller front parlor, and was ushered into a much grander room. Tall windows let in the light, accentuating the yellow-and-white color scheme of the drawing room. A pianoforte took up one corner, and Lady Tremont and her daughters were arranged, as carefully as flowers, in the center of the room.

  His gaze went to Ellie, seated off to the side. To his relief, she no longer wore stark black, but a gown of soft lavender. Still somber, of course, but the color did not highlight her pallor—though it did echo the shadows beneath her eyes.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said with a bow, presenting his bouquet to Lady Tremont. “Your house is already filled with sweet blooms, but I hope you’ll accept my humble offering.”

  “You are too kind.” The viscountess glanced at the flowers. “Ellie, take those and fetch a vase. We can display them on the table, there.”

  Ellie nodded, rising, and Kit had to bite his tongue on his objections. Why was she letting her stepmother treat her like a servant? On the other hand, if she were the one to handle the flowers, perhaps she might see the daisy hidden among the blooms. He hoped it would make her smile.

  “Thank you,” she said to him, taking the bouquet and not meeting his eyes.

  “Do hurry,” the dark-haired Delia said. “We don’t want them to wilt. Such a thoughtful gift from Lord Christopher should be treated with care.” She gave him a coquettish smile.

  “Oh, yes,” Abigail added, not to be outdone. “It’s a truly magnificent bouquet.”

  He should have brought them daisies and cornflowers after all, just to dash their expectations—although he had the unsettling notion that he could do no wrong in their eyes.

  Ellie, however, was another matter. She hurried out of the room, and he resolved to find an opportunity to speak with her privately. The warmth he’d felt between them the other day seemed to be gone, and he wanted to know why.

  Was she in trouble? Did her stepmother mistreat her, beyond the obvious relegation to servant status? He wasn’t sure what he could do to intervene, as a single gentleman taking rooms at Claridge’s, but surely there must be a way to extricate her from the situation, if it were untenable.

  In India, beneath the bright blue sky, things were much simpler. In truth, he felt a little at sea, thrown into the upper strata of Society in London. He’d navigated it well enough, he thought, until now. But what did a lord do if he suspected trouble within a household that was, on the surface, none of his business?

  A pity there was not enough time to post a letter to India and receive a reply in return. His mother would know what to do—but in her absence, he must muddle along as best he could. Your heart has ever been a true compass, she told him as he boarded the ship to England. Steer by it.

  And so, he would do his best. Even if the currents of the ton were deep and treacherous.

  Lady Tremont rose from her place at the center of the sofa.

  “Please sit,” she said, waving to the vacant spot between her daughters.

  “Thank you.” Kit shot a glance at the safe bulwark of the nearby armchair.

  Unfortunately, it would be rude to snub the lady’s daughters so openly. With an inward sigh, he settled between Delia and Abigail, then had to resist the urge to rub his nose.

  Each girl wore perfume, their scents competing instead of complementing one another. Delia smelled as though she were drenched in jasmine, and a nose-stunning overabundance of violet wafted from Abigail.

  “Did you receive an invitation to the Queen’s Ball?” Abigail asked. She bounced up and down a bit, clearly excited at the prospect.

  “I believe so,” Kit said, recalling that an envelope embossed with the royal seal had arrived just that morning.

  “Will you be in attendance, my lord?” Lady Tremont asked as she settled in the chair across from him, her cool tone a subtle reprimand to her daughter.

  “I intend to, yes.”

  The ball would be an excellent opportunity to further winnow the field and settle upon the perfect candidate for a wife. He wouldn’t say such a thing aloud, of course. Lady Tremont and her daughters needed no further encouragement along such matrimonial lines.

  “Have you planned to come as any particular figure from the era?” Delia asked, leaning toward him. “The Duke of Richmond, perhaps? I had thought I might emulate Lady Frances Stuart. She was known as a great beauty.”

  If Kit recalled his history, the two had married, despite the lady in question being desired by the king.

  “I’d not given it much thought,” he replied. Indeed, as the invitation was yet unopened, he’d been unaware the ball had a particular theme.

  “Do consider it,” Delia said, looking up at him from beneath lowered eyelashes. “The duke was such a dashing figure.”

  “Oh, b
ut he died tragically,” Abigail said. “I think you’d be better served as a courtier.”

  “I’m certain Lord Christopher will take your suggestions under advisement,” the viscountess said. “Ah, Ellie, there you are. My, what a long time you took to arrange the flowers.”

  Ellie set down the cut crystal vase of blooms, the delicate pink of the peonies echoing the color in her cheeks. Kit suspected that whatever length of time she might have taken with the flowers, her stepmother would have found equal fault.

  He surveyed the bouquet, seeing no hint of daisy petals among the blooms.

  “Do you like my flowers?” he asked Ellie directly.

  “Of course,” she said, moving to take the armchair. “It’s very kind of you.”

  Her answer was frustratingly vague. Then again, he could scarcely expect her to have worn the daisy openly, even if she had discovered it.

  “We were just discussing the queen’s costume ball,” he said. “Do you have plans to attend as any particular personage?”

  The color in her cheeks deepened, and Delia let out a titter.

  “I’m certain Ellie will attend as someone appropriate,” Lady Tremont said. “Now, Lord Christopher, how long do you intend to remain in London?”

  “I plan to return to Assam by the end of June,” he said. “I’ll be managing my family’s tea plantation there while my father comes to England to take up the duties of his new estate.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame,” Abigail said. “A month is scarcely long enough to get to know you before you leave again.”

  “I am of the opinion that the measure of a gentleman can be judged within a meeting or two,” her mother said, arching a brow. “And I believe you, Lord Christopher, are quite worthy.”

  Of marrying either of her daughters—the implication was clear.

  Kit swallowed. “Most kind of you, Lady Tremont.”

  He sent Ellie a somewhat panicked glance. A faint, mischievous smile crossed her lips, gone so quickly he suspected he was the only one who saw it.