Chapter 1
Chapter One
“Darling Frances, it is time for our dance,” drawled a man’s voice, familiar, irritating and arrogant in its entitlement. “How well that cream silk gown becomes you.”
Lady Frances Harcourt looked towards the speaker with careful control of her finely sculpted features. While deeply annoyed by this manner of address, she was also conscious of the many observant eyes in the crowded ballroom, including those of her own mother, the Countess of Scovell.
Tall and willowy with light brown hair pinned neatly tonight with pearls, Frances possessed an air of quiet reserve and calm dignity that she did not wish to ruin by speaking her mind as loudly and frankly as she was presently tempted.
“I was not aware that we had agreed to dance, Lord Mulford,” she said lightly. “You must be mistaken. In any case, I am tired, and the next dance is a reel.”
“Lord Mulford?” the tall, blond-haired nobleman repeated with a chuckle of amusement. “Surely, having known one another since infancy, it is too late for such formality. I do prefer it when you call me Oswald.”
“We are not children now, Lord Mulford,” Frances reminded him in low tones, her grey-blue gaze firm and serious. “We are also in public, where decorum requires appropriate address.”
“Then in private, can I still expect you to call me Oswald?” he asked in a wheedling tone and with one raised eyebrow. “We could take a walk in the gardens now if you prefer, as we used to do so long ago.”
These words, and the smirk on his smoothly handsome and arrogant face, turned Frances’ stomach.
She longed to turn her back on him and walk away but that would certainly create a minor stir.
She had also promised her mother that she would remain in the ballroom tonight and dance at least a few dances, if anyone asked her.
After five London seasons, Frances had hoped that this year, her family might finally accept that she was destined for spinsterhood.
Her mother, however, still had other thoughts.
Helen, Countess Scovell, was not ready to give up yet.
Frances had planned to simply drift and dream tonight, avoiding the eye of any potential dancing partners, but Oswald was spoiling things.
“As I told you, Lord Mulford, I am very tired,” Frances repeated. “You would do better to find another partner who will do your dancing skills justice in the reel.”
“You cannot possibly be tired,” he asserted, undeterred. “You have not danced a single dance tonight. Yes, I have been watching you, Frances. You cannot deny it. I am certain that you can summon the energy for one dance with an old family friend.”
The family of Oswald Keeton had indeed been lifelong neighbors to Frances’ family, possessing the neighboring estate to Scovell Manor, the Earl of Scovell’s grand home outside London. It was also true that Frances and Oswald had played together.
Not all of these childhood memories were positive, however, and Frances’ experience of Oswald as a man was strikingly negative, especially since he became Earl of Mulford three years ago, on his father’s death.
The idea that he had been watching her tonight made Frances’ skin crawl.
Why could Oswald never leave her alone? She did not seek his attention, nor that of any other man.
There were dozens of lovely young ladies at this ball who might have welcomed Lord Mulford's invitation to dance.
He knew very well that Frances did not, and yet pursued her nonetheless.
Preparing for one final, definite refusal and then speedy withdrawal to the ladies retiring room, Frances drew herself up to her full height to make herself even plainer. But it was too late.
“Look, your mother wishes us to dance,” crowed Oswald, bowing his head in the direction of the Countess of Scovell, who was making an encouraging gesture towards her unenthusiastic daughter. “You cannot refuse now. How disappointed she would be.”
Frances met her mother’s eyes and saw their eagerness.
Even if it was only with a family acquaintance of such longstanding as Oswald, she was desperate for her daughter to dance with someone.
Beside the Countess of Scovell stood several other supervising mothers, all following this little pantomime.
With a weary sigh, she nodded and took Lord Mulford’s gloved hand. She would not embarrass her mother unnecessarily before the other society matrons, whose daughters had probably been dancing all night with men they might one day marry. This much she could give.
“One dance,” Frances said firmly and set her jaw to endure the coming minutes.
“It is a shame that we should not have the waltz,” observed Oswald softly, his deceptively soft brown eyes glinting as they took their places for the reel. “I am denied the pleasure of holding you in my arms.”
Again, Frances had to repress a shudder. Even touching this man’s hand or arm through cloth made her feel slightly ill.
“How is Mulford Hall, Lord Mulford?” she said conversationally. “The gardens must be blooming in the present weather.”
“Oh yes, the gardens are blooming,” he answered. “As are you, Lady Frances Harcourt. When are you finally going to let your icy manner melt and…”
Thankfully, the reel began in earnest before Oswald could complete his sentence and they were dancing up the line with the other couples. Despite her earlier pleas of tiredness, Francis now hoped for a fast-moving measure to prevent too much talking and end all the quicker.
“The ballroom is well-lit tonight. Lady Morgan does not stint on candles,” Frances observed with cool civility at a pause where Oswald looked likely to speak again.
“But none of the chandeliers burns brighter than you, Frances, however hard you try to hide your charming light from me.”
Oswald now squeezed her hand and the dance meant that she could not pull back her fingers for several long seconds.
“You must not talk like that, Lord Mulford,” she warned him under her breath.
“Why not? Does it make you uncomfortable to know how much I wish to…”
Again, the movement up and down the line rescued Frances temporarily from hearing the conclusion of Oswald’s repugnant sentiments.
He knew very well how uncomfortable his words made her.
She had told him bluntly enough when she first came out and they began to encounter one another at social events.
In time, Frances realized that Oswald enjoyed making her squirm and her protests only incited him to greater indelicacy.
As the reel came to an end, Frances almost groaned her relief and prepared to fly quickly from the dance floor before Lord Mulford could continue his ungentlemanly addresses.
“Enjoy the rest of the evening, Lord Mulford,” she said shortly, with a small curtsy, as the other ladies gave to their partners.
“You cannot go yet, Frances,” he chuckled. “I cannot allow it when the next dance is to be a waltz.”
Whether Oswald intended to touch her inappropriately, or only to take hold of her for the waltz, Frances did not know. She only knew that the pressure of his hand in small of her back caused a violent reaction through her body.
Almost without thinking, Frances brought the heel of her shoe down hard on his toes, causing him to jump back with a cry of pain and surprise. Thank God she had chosen these formal court shoes tonight and not satin dancing slippers.
“I am sorry, Lord Mulford, how clumsy of me,” Frances said loudly and sympathetically enough to explain the situation to curious eyes. “I really must sit down and rest after that reel. Do excuse me.”
Oswald glared at her furiously, unable to do anything now to prevent her departure.
As Frances turned away, his handsome features were twisted almost to ugliness by some strong and unpleasant emotion.
Not for the first time, she wondered whether he liked her or hated her. It was increasingly difficult to tell.
“Did you enjoy your dance, dear?” asked Lady Scovell as she and her daughter entered the supper room arm in arm.
“Not really, no,” Frances admitted with a long sigh. “I never enjoy dancing with Lord Mulford, but he will keep asking me. I only accepted because I knew you wished me to dance. Please do not make me dance with him again.”
After stamping on his toes, Frances hoped that Oswald would at least stay away from her for the rest of this ball.
The thought briefly flashed through her head that she wished he would fall under some galloping horse.
As her conscience pricked her, she amended this to wishing only that he would fall in love and marry some other young lady and leave Frances alone.
“Dear me, I suppose Oswald is too familiar to think of him as a desirable partner, in dancing or anything else,” remarked her mother cheerfully, being unaware of the truth of their neighbor’s behavior towards Frances.
Frances had always doubted whether either of her parents would believe her if she told them the truth of Oswald. He was ever polite and charming in their company and she suspected this was part of his game.
“No, I could never, ever consider Lord Mulford as any kind of partner,” she told her mother emphatically.
Had Oswald always been so dreadful? No, Frances thought not. When they were very young, they had fun together in the woodlands and waters of both estates. She remembered Oswald then as merely boisterous and sometimes naughty, as boys of that age often are.
The change had begun with his mother’s death, when he was fourteen. Or had it been the previous summer after that awful day at the folly?
Frances drained her flute of champagne and put down the glass, refusing to let her mind stray onto images of that distressing scene so long ago.
“I didn’t think so, but I wanted you to be seen on the dance floor,” Helen Harcourt explained her earlier encouragement of Frances’ dance with Oswald.
“If a girl never dances with anyone, people see her as a wallflower and a likely old maid. Dancing shows off grace and beauty like nothing else and then people see her in a different light.”
“Mother, I am a wallflower and a likely old maid, and quite content to be so,” Frances asserted, helping herself to salmon and salad from the long platters at one of the buffet tables.
“Not at all, dear,” Lady Scovell tutted with a smile, as though Frances had just expressed a fear rather than a preference. “The right husband for you will be out there somewhere. You just haven’t met him yet and…”
“If you say so, Mother,” sighed Frances, too weary to argue this point yet again. “Would you like some of this sauce with your salmon?”
“…and that is why I have spoken to a matchmaker for you,” her mother completed her sentence with another warm smile. “You have been so weary and disengaged this season, and never dance any more, or even try to make conversation. I could see that you needed some help.”
Speechless, Frances had to lay down her plate on the buffet table to stop herself from dropping it.
She had been quite deliberately disengaged, refusing dances, refraining from eye contact and hoping that all potential suitors would finally leave her alone now that she had attained the grand age of three-and-twenty.
Her mother really still thought that Frances was trying and failing to find a husband! Did no one in the family believe a word she had ever said to them about never wishing to marry? Evidently not.
“So, you see, there is no need for you to worry at all,” continued Lady Scovell, patting her daughter’s hand affectionately. "We are going to find you the perfect husband this season. All you have to do is meet a few suitors recommended by the matchmaker, and maybe fall in love with one of them.”
Frances swallowed and tried to control her features in the face of this astonishing plan.
Her mother was doubtless well-intended but this was the last thing Frances wanted.
Still, she supposed, she could refuse suitors recommended by a matchmaker as well as she could refuse almost every dance at a ball.
There was only her parents’ disappointment to be managed.
“I don’t believe I could ever love a man as my husband,” Frances told her mother impulsively as she picked up her plate again. “You must know that.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that, dear,” Lady Scovell returned. “Love often grows in time with the right partner. It is not good to be alone forever, you know. I have had a happy life with your father…”
This last statement was like a knife twisting in Frances’ heart and she wished she could clap her hands over her ears like a child. She did not want to hear her mother praising her father, when Frances knew how undeserving he really was of such devotion.
“Tell me about this matchmaker,” Frances said desperately, leading the way to some empty chairs at a table. “How did you find them?”
“Ah, well, I was at Lady Campbell-Lockhart’s musical evening,” began Lady Scovell, successfully diverted from her previous course.
As Helen told her story, Frances wondered how best to repulse any suitor who came to the house. It would be easier that way than letting anyone get to the point of proposing to her.