Chapter 22
“Try not to look as if you’re going to faint, Frances,” Lavinia teased as she squeezed her sister’s hand. “It hardly encourages the marriage-minded, and it will certainly give Aunt Petunia material for months.”
Frances pressed her lips together, the color rising in her cheeks as the entrance to Lady Montfort’s ballroom loomed closer.
“I do not plan to faint,” Frances whispered. “But what if I forget everything? What if I spill punch on someone’s dress? Or worse, what if no one asks me at all?”
“Then we shall blame Aunt Petunia’s wretched lemonade,” Lavinia replied. “Or, if the situation is dire, we shall claim to be afflicted with a rare and temporary brain fever.”
The doors opened with a fanfare of sound, and the majordomo announced them in a stentorian voice: “Lady Lavinia Pembroke, Lady Frances Pembroke.” The noise from the ballroom faltered only slightly, but Lavinia saw Lady Montfort’s turbaned head snap around at once, her fan snapping open in what could only be interpreted as a summons.
“Chin up, Frances,” Lavinia whispered. “Whatever happens, you are already the prettiest girl in the room.” It was only a small exaggeration; in the white muslin and with her hair in a demure coiffure, Frances looked painfully young and heartbreakingly hopeful.
Lady Montfort descended upon them before they reached the stair landing, the feathers in her turban bobbing. “Lavinia, Frances, you are late,” she declared, though it was not yet half-past the hour. “I have been waiting an eternity, and the first quadrille is nearly begun.”
“We were delayed by a recalcitrant bootlace,” Lavinia said. “It waged a lengthy and bitter campaign against us.”
Lady Montfort rolled her eyes. “Spare me the metaphors, Lavinia. I am already on the verge of collapse, what with the arrangements and the endless parade of suitors.” She took Frances’s free arm and steered her toward the ballroom, not slowing for the younger girl’s brief, terrified glance back.
Lavinia paused just a moment at the threshold, taking in the full sweep of the scene: the mirrored walls, the shock of flowers on every surface, the crowd of guests already milling in clusters. She drew in a breath, braced herself, and entered the fray.
Lady Montfort wasted no time. “Frances, come with me. I must introduce you to Lady Beaton’s son.
He is not the handsomest creature, but he owns half of Kent.
And he has the common sense to keep his mouth shut, unlike some people.
” She turned to Lavinia. “As for you, my dear, your only duty is to stand there and look harmless. Tonight is not for you. You’ve had your chance. ”
The words were delivered with a smile so fine it could have sliced bread, and then she was gone, sweeping Frances in her wake toward a clot of debutantes near the dais.
Lavinia stood rooted with her spine straight as a flagpole. You’ve had your chance. She let the sting settle into the pit of her stomach, then exhaled it away slowly. She would not give Lady Montfort the satisfaction of seeing her perturbed.
She drifted to the margin of the crowd, half in shadow, and let herself observe. The music surged, and couples began to pair off, Frances among them, her cheeks already blooming with nervous excitement.
Lavinia smiled to herself. So far, so good.
She edged toward a potted palm, feigning interest in its fronds, when a voice that sounded too close and too smooth came just behind her.
“My Lady Lavinia, I must confess, I had not expected to see you here tonight.”
She turned to find Lord Dawnford, bowing with the exaggerated gallantry of a man who had rehearsed it before a mirror. His eyes—remarkably pale, and not improved by the affectation of surprise—slid over her with the keenness of a jeweler appraising a flawed gem.
“Lord Dawnford,” she said, curtsying politely. “I assure you, I am as surprised to see myself here as you are.”
He laughed, though she had not meant it as a joke.
“What a wit! The rumors do not do you justice.” He leaned closer, and his cologne was an assault on the senses.
“You are even more radiant in green than in blue. I recall the blue, you know. At Scarfield’s garden party. But this green—ah, it is a triumph.”
Lavinia shifted her weight, careful not to betray her discomfort. “Thank you, Lord Dawnford. I confess, I have forgotten what I wore to Scarfield’s party. The day was rather a blur.”
“Not for me.” He moved to block her view of the dancers, his arm pressed so close to hers that the fine hairs on her wrist bristled. “I remember everything about you.”
She smiled stiffly. “You must have an extraordinary memory, my lord.”
“Oh, I do. Particularly when it comes to matters of beauty.”
She considered a retort, then discarded it. There was no point fencing with someone who would not recognize a barb even as it drew blood.
“May I fetch you a glass of champagne?” he asked, as if it were his own idea and not the prescribed opening move in the courtship manual.
She replied, “That is very kind, but I am—”
“Excellent!” He did not wait for her to finish. “I shall return in an instant. Try not to disappear.”
He vanished into the crowd, leaving behind the lingering note of his cologne and the threat of imminent return.
Lavinia scanned the room, desperate for a plausible escape. Her gaze landed on Frances, who was now deep in conversation with a young man whose profile suggested a life spent in pursuit of foxes and not much else. Good. Frances would not need rescuing, at least for the next half-hour.
She slipped toward the refreshment table, intending to lose herself in the churn of servants and guests. She had made it only two steps when Lord Dawnford materialized again with two glasses in hand and a smile that said he would not be shaken off easily.
“To beauty,” he said, thrusting a glass toward her.
She accepted it, but did not drink. “You are very persistent, my lord.”
“Only when the cause is worthy.” He raised his own glass and, without taking his eyes from her, drained it.
She sipped hers, the champagne unexpectedly dry on her tongue.
“I do hope you liked the flowers,” he continued. “The roses, I mean. I took great care in selecting them. I have always thought the rose an unfairly maligned symbol—so many thorns, yet everyone remembers only the bloom.”
“They were lovely,” she replied. “Though next time, perhaps, consider including a warning for the housekeeper. She nearly fainted at the sight.”
He laughed again, louder this time. “I like you, Lady Lavinia. You do not mince words. It is refreshing in a world so intent on artifice.”
Lavinia wondered if he realized that he was the world, or at least its most insistent symptom.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice as if they were co-conspirators. “You know, I hear talk. Whispers. You are the talk of every club in London, Lady Lavinia. No one can decide whether you are an ice queen or a secret siren.”
She nearly choked on her champagne. “Is that so?”
“Oh, yes. The men are divided. Some say you are proud, others that you are untouchable. But I,” he said, placing his hand over his heart, “I see the truth. You are simply misunderstood.”
It was all Lavinia could do not to laugh in his face. Instead, she gave him the blandest smile she could muster. “Well, Lord Dawnford, I find your attention… flattering, but rather overwhelming.”
He grinned. “That is my specialty.”
She tried to step around him, but he mirrored her, not so much blocking as enveloping. “Would you do me the honor of the next waltz?” he said, bowing just enough to make the request a challenge.
She paused, aware that to refuse would only make him more persistent. “I—”
As if to doom her, the orchestra picked up the first strains of a waltz. Before she could reply, he had set his glass aside and offered his arm, his expression leaving no room for argument.
She placed her hand on his sleeve. He led her to the floor, and as they joined the whirl of dancers, he leaned in close. “You move beautifully,” he murmured. “One might almost think you enjoy this.”
“I do enjoy dancing,” she replied. “It is the company that is variable.”
His mouth twitched. “I see. But am I so very terrible?”
She considered. “You have not yet trodden on my feet, so you are doing better than most.”
He laughed again, but this time there was a sharpness to it, as if her words had finally found purchase. Good.
They circled the floor, and she became aware of the pressure of his hand at her waist. She matched every move with perfect decorum, refusing to let him dictate the tempo.
“I like a challenge,” he said softly. “Most women try to flatter, or to coyly pretend they do not notice me. But you—”
“I notice everything,” Lavinia replied. “It is the only way to survive.”
He studied her, and the predatory gleam in his eyes was briefly replaced by something more speculative. “You are fascinating, Lady Lavinia. I should like to know you better, truly court you.”
She almost pitied him then. He had no idea what it meant to know her, or anyone. Thought the idea of allowing him to court her danced on her mind. Another from him would get them out of poverty.
But his character. He was even more detestable than Mr. Crawley. She could not bring herself to be with a man who lacked honor. There has to be another way…
The waltz ended, and as the applause erupted, he held her a moment longer, his grip just shy of possessive.
“May I bring you another glass?” he asked, his voice softening as if it might entice her.
She disengaged her hand, careful to maintain the illusion of cordiality. “You may do as you wish, Lord Dawnford. I am sure you always do.”
He smiled, but the muscles in his jaw worked. “You cut deeper than a rose’s thorn.”
“Only when pressed,” she said.
She drifted away before he could say more, back toward the edge of the ballroom. She fanned herself, counting the seconds until she was alone.
A hush falling over the assembly signaled the entrance of new arrivals.
It was as though the air itself had thickened.
All eyes swung toward the door, where a man stood just inside the threshold, broad shouldered, impeccably dressed, his dark hair wind-tossed and his features set in an expression of total, almost bored authority.
Lavinia’s heart stopped and started again, tripping over itself.
Why are you here?