Chapter Two
Lady Blake’s ballroom was gaily festooned with streamers in celebration of the end of the war with Napoleon. Bowers of beautiful hothouse flowers scented the air with their perfume.
Alicia and Lord Bartholmew danced down the set in the quadrille.
He had rarely talked, making only a couple of perfunctory remarks about the celebrations in London after the war, while continually clearing his throat.
His hazel eyes, on the rare occasion when he looked at her, revealed nothing of his feelings and little evidence of being even slightly attracted to her.
In fact, he kept glancing over at his father, who watched sternly from his chair.
Alicia almost felt sorry for Lord Bartholomew.
But not enough to encourage him. When they came together, she spoke of how hot London was becoming.
The ballroom was still packed tonight, despite it being the tail end of the Season and the ton leaving the city for their country estates, or the seaside in Brighton or Weymouth, to avoid the unbearable heat in London.
Miss Scott, a debutante who had become quite friendly, had mentioned that the Prince Regent was in Brighton.
“Mama plans to follow next week,” she said to Alicia.
“She has rented a house near the Esplanade.”
As the music ended, Alicia took Lord Bartholomew’s arm to join the line exiting the dance floor.
“Do you like dogs, my lord?”
He turned to her, his eyebrows raised. “Eh?”
“Dogs. I have a Pomeranian.”
“Good grief, no. Not sure what that is, but I’m not fond of any breed. Especially those who look at one as if they’d like to have you for dinner.”
She had nothing to say to this and fell silent.
Returning her to Aunt Elizabeth, he bowed and left her.
Was that relief she saw on his face? It wasn’t very flattering, and she wondered if someone had told him about the article in the gossip sheet, which a debutante had pointed out to her.
She had hoped no one would see it, but now she couldn’t be sure.
The author had been anonymous, but it must have originated from Lady Forrester.
The spiteful woman had gone out of her way to cause trouble. It had been inexplicable.
Alicia sat running her fingers through the tassels on her fan, wondering if she was the subject of discussion amid those clustered in groups around the ballroom.
She wanted to leave and avoid any other engagements until another scandal arose and relegated hers to the past, but she knew Aunt Elizabeth would not hear of it.
And anything Alicia might do or say could get back to her father.
There was Lady Forrester, dressed in purple once again, watching her while engaged with other widows.
Was Alicia being fair to blame her for spreading such awful lies about the embarrassing mishap at Cambridge?
Alicia could think of no one else who would have.
Would her father hear of it? She wanted to sink into the floor.
Alicia drew in a sharp breath when the duke entered the ballroom: tall and elegant in black-and-crisp-white evening clothes, his strong shoulders in a superbly crafted coat.
She couldn’t help remembering how he’d looked when coming out of the river.
He stood near the far wall of the ballroom, in conversation with another gentleman.
But as he talked, his searching gaze found her.
He nodded slightly. Surely, he would not come to speak to her.
She put a hand to her neck, where a telling, warm flush had begun to rise.
Could he believe she had set her cap at him, as others here tonight must think?
How mortifying. She wanted to leave before he approached her.
The duke left his companion and strolled across the floor.
She gasped. No! He wasn’t coming over to her.
Surely not. They had not been properly introduced.
Well, not introduced at all. She dropped her gaze to her fan and hoped he had disappeared into the crush, although a part of her, a large and foolish part, wished otherwise.
When she glanced up, the duke walked toward her with Lady Blake, their hostess, on his arm. Alicia’s heart thumped.
“Well, I do believe it is the Duke of Exeter,” Aunt Elizabeth said, smiling broadly. “If he should ask you to dance, you will be the belle of the ball and your future assured.”
“I don’t see why. Not after just one dance.”
“Every unattached gentleman in the ballroom would want to dance with you after a dance with a duke.”
Alicia was unsure why His Grace would wish to meet her. Perhaps he wanted to inquire about Figaro.
“A young woman’s modest demeanor is pleasing, but only so much; showing yourself in a poor light never served any lady. Do raise your chin and smile,” Aunt Elizabeth implored her from behind her fan.
He is the Duke of Exeter, Alicia thought, as he and Lady Blake drew near.
One of the richest men in England; this would cause a fuss with every debutante’s mother, and Lady Forrester was hardly about to let this good opportunity for gossip pass her by.
By nightfall, everyone would hear the woman’s account of how Alicia had been prepared to sacrifice her dog and figuratively thrown herself at his feet.
Lady Blake, graceful in dove gray, introduced the duke to Aunt Elizabeth. “How do you do, Lady Elizabeth? It is lovely to see you again in London. And who is this charming young lady?”
“Your Grace, this is my niece, Miss Alicia Bolton. Alicia, may I present you to His Grace, the Duke of Exeter.”
The duke bowed.
The party’s hostess spoke up, explaining more to the strapping man on her arm. “Miss Bolton is Viscount Bolton’s daughter, of course.”
When Lady Blake became engaged in a conversation with her aunt, the duke studied Alicia as she waited, trying to order her breath.
“It is a pleasure to meet you again, Miss Bolton,” he said. “I hope your small dog has suffered no ill effects from his swim?”
She smiled, glad for the opportunity to thank him properly.
He must not have heard the gossip. She imagined such rags were beneath him.
“Figaro’s devil-may-care demeanor has been restored.
I am very grateful to you, Your Grace. It was exceedingly generous of you.
I hate to think what might have happened to my poor dog if you hadn’t dived in after him.
I do hope you didn’t catch a cold in your chest.”
His lips quirked. “I avoided it. With a warm shawl around my shoulders, I sat by the fire and sipped a hot toddy, which my grandmother swears cures all ills.”
She smiled and shook her head.
He raised his eyebrows. “I fear you doubt me.”
“I do,” she said, trying not to giggle. “Though you appear remarkably well.”
His quick glance took her in from her toes to her head. “As do you, if I may say so?”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Her cheeks grew warm and she glanced around, horrified that anyone within earshot would think she had flirted with him.
“Have you been claimed for the waltz, Miss Bolton?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“Then will you save it for me?”
“I should be pleased to,” she said, elation fighting with dismay.
He smiled and nodded, and after a brief exchange with Aunt Elizabeth, left with their hostess.
Aunt Elizabeth gasped. “Your father will be thrilled. He always said that you would marry well, as you have your mother’s looks.”
Waltzing with the duke would be sure to set the cat among the pigeons.
Now, her name would appear in all the gossip magazines.
But gazing into his handsome face, she began to consider it worthwhile.
“It is merely a dance, Aunt Elizabeth. I wouldn’t put too much store by it.
Gentlemen feel it their duty to dance with debutantes. ”
“Fiddlesticks!”
Alicia couldn’t keep her gaze from returning to the duke, who stood again with his male companion.
Fearing the waltz would only add fuel to Lady Forrester’s gossip, she frowned and fiddled with her gloves.
Why was the woman so malicious? If Alicia was believed to be flirting with the duke while unchaperoned, it could ruin her reputation and spoil any chance for her to choose the man she wanted to marry.
Instead, she would suffer an arranged marriage before the year was out.
Would it be Lord Bartholomew? It made her feel sick.
*
Robert nodded to his friend Philip Carrington and took a glass of champagne from a passing footman.
“This is a surprise,” Phillip said.
“What is?” Robert raised an eyebrow and waited for the teasing he was sure was coming. Phillip could always be relied upon.
“To see you so keen to meet a young debutante. You usually avoid them like the plague.”
“I wished to know how her dog fared after its dunking.”
“Then the gossip mag didn’t alarm you?”
“What magazine? I never read them. Why?”
“An article in one of those gossip mags wrote that Miss Bolton had allowed her dog to fall into the water to gain your attention.”
Robert laughed. “What nonsense! I was one of seven other fellows. What made her believe it would be I who dove in to save the pup?”
“Didn’t you rescue a child who slipped in the mud there last year?”
“Yes. But that would have been forgotten, surely.”
“People have long memories for a juicy piece of gossip.”
“Bloody nonsense!” Robert gazed across at the young lady in her delicate white gown, which suited her figure.
She looked like an angel. But his thoughts were not angelic.
He wanted to woo her. To loosen her fair locks over her shoulders and kiss the sensitive spot beneath her ear.
Get a grip. He looked forward to their waltz.
He might learn more about her. He couldn’t believe she was the devious sort, and he’d met more than his share of those.
Robert was not easily fooled. He had been drawn to her the moment he’d first seen her and sensed her to be what she appeared: a good person.
But could one rely solely on first impressions?
When the musicians tuned their instruments and Lady Blake announced the waltz, Robert crossed the floor to where pretty Miss Bolton was seated, wearing a fetching embroidered, white muslin gown trimmed with pink satin.
He felt the ton’s eyes on him. He had long since grown used to the attention, and ordinarily took little notice, but tonight, it bothered him.
If she were the subject of vicious gossip, then he felt obliged to protect her.
Their waltz might quiet things down. Or would it simply fan the flames?
But one dance could do little harm. It would soon be forgotten when he danced with other ladies.
And it was too late to give any more thought to it.
He couldn’t mention the magazine, of course. She may not even be aware of it.
Robert greeted her aunt. Miss Bolton stood and laid her small, gloved hand on his arm.
She appeared nervous and held herself stiffly as they crossed to the dance floor.
Her glance over his shoulder at the milling crowd reminded him of a rabbit in a hunter’s sights.
Not the usual response he got from a young dance partner in her first Season.
They usually giggled and flirted. He suspected she had seen the magazine article. And he was determined to distract her.
When the musicians struck up the waltz, he took her hand, his other hand resting at her slim waist. He gazed down at her.
Up close, she was even more appealing. Long, dark lashes swept her creamy cheeks; her mouth, with its full bottom lip, perfect for kissing, but a little too firm.
Robert wished she would look at him so he could see the expression in her eyes.
“You are counting the steps, Miss Bolton,” he said to get a response.
“You know quite well I am not, Your Grace.”
Ah! She raised her beautiful, chocolate-brown eyes to his, and he caught his breath at the teasing laughter he found there.
One dance seemed hardly enough to discover the delights Miss Bolton hid from him.
He cautioned himself. His mother had spies in the ballroom who would write to her at once should they consider him dangerously smitten.
And he wasn’t, was he? Nor dare he ignore the fact that Miss Bolton, being a viscount’s daughter, might not please his mother, who, if he failed to marry Miss Kershaw, expected him to aim higher.
He was firm in his intention not to consider marriage until he was past thirty.
His mother preferred the country and her horses and seldom went to London for the Season.
But she seemed to be alone too much, while his father had spent a good part of the year at Parliament, or with his friends and associates in the city.
He’d come home only for the hunting season and Christmas and brought a group of friends with him.
It had hardly been a love match, having been arranged by their parents.
Robert would never agree to such a cold-blooded affair.
He still believed in love and wished for a romantic relationship within marriage.
“Do you like to dance, Miss Bolton?”
“Very much.”
“Is there someone here with whom you might prefer to dance?” He hoped he might prompt her to tell him about the gossip, then he could put her mind at rest.
Miss Bolton didn’t. She widened her eyes. “Good heavens, no. You dance so well, Your Grace, I am enjoying every moment.”
He smiled down at her, wondering how to break through that wall of reserve she’d thrown up between them.
All right, he admitted he was used to attention from women and was somewhat taken aback by this cool, young lady.
And while he so often didn’t welcome that attention, this was one time he would.
Such were the vagaries of life. Perhaps Miss Bolton’s affections had been claimed by another man.
Dash it all, that thought didn’t suit him at all!