12. A Waltz for the Winning Bidder
A Waltz for the Winning Bidder
As Saturday evening arrived, so too had the SPCA’s fundraiser.
The King Street assembly rooms had been engaged for the evening, playing host to the very cream of London society.
Members of Parliament, philanthropic gentlemen, and the flower of the peerage had all been summoned to this most illustrious gathering.
Even Almack’s famous patronesses were present, but not presiding.
The charity held sway over courtship on this night.
The proceeds, it was declared, would benefit the most worthy Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.
To orchestrate such an elegant affair was no small feat, even for the redoubtable matrons of the SPCA.
Only gentlemen of unimpeachable character were permitted to bid in the dance auction, each one rigorously vetted by a formidable committee of society ladies whose twin aims—fundraising and matchmaking—were pursued with seamless efficiency.
Only after passing their scrutiny was a gentleman granted a bidding ticket.
Notorious rakes and fortune hunters might insinuate themselves among the guests, but any hope of securing a bidding ticket at this late hour was in vain—such privileges were bestowed by the committee well beforehand, and no exceptions would be made.
The ever-formidable Lady Marlstone, with an aptitude for numbers, was entrusted with the auction gavel. Little did Mr. Wilberforce know how unnerving that would prove to be.
At the center of the supper room stood a four-legged table, cleverly designed with a wooden step ledge affixed to the side of two of its legs.
This ingenious contrivance allowed a lady to be elevated just enough to be seen as though upon a modest pedestal.
At this center table, the diligent Mr. Wilberforce maintained his ledger for the auction, while Lady Arabella officiated over the proceedings.
This arrangement afforded even the shyest debutantes a measure of poise beneath the assessing stares of the assembled gentlemen.
Not only blushing debutantes graced the auction block; also married ladies with an unquenchable enthusiasm for dancing enlisted themselves for the cause.
It was, after all, in the name of charity, and the higher the bids soared, the greater the funds amassed for the SPCA.
Thus, even amidst the glitter of jewels and the rustle of silks, the spirit of philanthropy prevailed, lending the affair a veneer of unimpeachable respectability—and no small amount of entertainment for the watching crowd.
“Remember, gentlemen,” Lady Marlstone addressed the gathered crowd. “Your winning bids will not only be recorded in Mr. Wilberforce’s ledger but you’ll also enter the history of charitable giving. Your debts must be settled before the end of the night.”
Mr. Wilberforce, standing sentinel at her side, inclined his head in solemn agreement.
“Let us begin,” Lady Marlstone declared. Her gown of sapphire taffeta whispered as she moved. Each young lady, clasping Lady Marlstone’s hand as she mounted the step, endured the collective scrutiny of the ton—though none could dispute the comfort derived from her ladyship’s unshakable composure.
“Gentlemen, who’ll open the bidding for a waltz with Miss Grover?”
“Ten shillings,” called out a baronet from the western wall, only his hand and ticket visible.
“Twelve,” countered a young viscount.
“Twenty-five shillings!” A collective gasp rippled through the assembly, followed by applause for such audacious generosity.
Lady Marlstone presided over the proceedings with her usual aplomb, though her enthusiasm with the gavel proved rather too forceful for Mr. Wilberforce’s delicate sensibilities.
The sharp rap against the table’s edge unsettled the gentleman, whose mind was more attuned to his ledger than to such displays of vigor.
After a whispered plea for the lady’s restraint—met with a profuse apology—he graciously permitted the proceedings to continue.
As each lady was assisted by the winning bidder off her step to the dance floor in the next room, Lady Marlstone praised each departing lady for her participation and made each gentleman aware that his generosity was for a noble cause.
The King Street supper room became a stage for both ambition and generosity, as gentlemen vied for a partner’s hand and the distinction of contributing to the cause.
With each winning bid, the funds grew, and the ledger filled with promise.
Some particularly eager bucks, brimming with confidence, placed their banknotes on the table as they claimed their prize, prompting William to cast Arabella an impressed glance.
“Next, we are honored by a lady whose grace in the ballroom is rivaled only by her devotion to our four-legged beneficiaries,” proclaimed Lady Marlstone.
Princess Esterhazy stepped gracefully to the center of the room, while her husband looked on with pride. The bidding soared with alacrity, each gentleman more determined than the last to secure both victory and the privilege of partnering so celebrated a dancer.
“Capital! Capital indeed!” Lady Marlstone cried, as the gavel’s decisive rap sealed yet another triumphant alliance. She turned to Mr. Wilberforce, a shared look of contentment passing between them.
Tonight, their labors would yield dividends beyond even their most optimistic projections—a testament to the formidable might of the ton when rallied to a noble purpose.
As the moment approached for Lucinda to step forward, she drew a steadying breath.
A thousand thoughts jostled for precedence in her mind.
Who would win her as a dance partner? Would Miles rescue her if necessary?
And what bliss it would be to waltz at last, after so many solitary rehearsals!
Her last visit to Almack’s had been the season’s last ball.
Her admission had been secured by her godmother’s influence, but the patronesses’ coveted sanction to waltz had been denied her.
This evening, however, was Lady Marlstone’s event, and under her benevolent rule, all ladies and gentlemen were granted the liberty of a waltz.
With a few exceptions, the waltz was danced all night.
With mingled trepidation and resolve, Miss Harrington advanced to the center of the room—the last lady to submit herself to the evening’s singular auction.
“I give you Miss Harrington,” Lady Marlstone announced, her voice ringing with pride.
“Who will open the bidding for our final and most delightful partner?” she demanded, sweeping the room with a commanding gaze.
Miss Harrington’s arresting presence—and the fiery glint of her tresses—commanded every eye in the room.
“One Pound!” cried an eager young man from the crowd’s inner rim.
“Two pounds!” said a dapper gentleman from the back wall.
“Five pounds!” Lord Creswell proclaimed, his bidding ticket aloft, his gaze fixed upon Miss Harrington with unnerving intensity.
At the edge of the throng, Miles Sinclair lounged casually against the doorway, poised and ready should Lucinda require his assistance.
Now that Creswell had bid for Lucinda’s hand in the auctioned dance, Miles was prepared to outbid him—valiantly, foolishly, and with no earthly idea how he’d pay for it by evening’s end.
His entire strategy hinged on winning first and then flinging himself at Aunt Bella’s feet with a plea so heartfelt she’d have no choice but to finance his impulsive heroics.
“Six pounds,” he said mildly, shocking those gathered around him who had not seen him make a bid all night.
Lord Creswell enunciated his next bid with icy precision. “Ten pounds.”
A collective gasp swept through the room. Creswell glared at Miles, with a viciousness that warned against trying to outbid him.
Lucinda, smiling through it all, gave Miles a look that begged him not to abandon her to the unpleasantness of a dance with Lord Creswell.
Flippantly, Miles waved his hand and said, “Eleven pounds,” his tone dismissive.
Creswell’s brow furrowed, but he would not be dissuaded. “Twenty,” he snapped.
“Twenty-one,” Miles offered with an ease that contrasted with the emptiness of his pockets.
“Exquisite, indeed,” murmured Lady Marlstone, with relish.
The audience was alight with the rapid exchange between the two gentlemen.
Lord Creswell’s next bid was a veritable gauntlet cast down. “Thirty pounds!”
Every eye now swiveled to Mr. Sinclair, who yet reclined with studied nonchalance against the wall.
He felt a heartbeat of indecision over how he would answer for his bid.
Ever ready to throw caution to the wind, he opened his mouth to reply when a booming voice came from a secondary doorway across the room.
“One hundred pounds!” A coup de grace , indeed.
Those standing before Lord Alexander Sinclair were startled out of their slippers as his voice rolled over the room, drawing every eye his way.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea as Lord Sinclair, resplendent in yet another of Vendelle’s masterpieces, advanced with unwavering focus upon Miss Harrington.
Their eyes locked across the room, and for a suspended moment, all else faded into irrelevance.
There was a new assurance in his bearing, a quiet resolve that sent her pulse racing.
She had seen Alex in many moods, but never quite like this—there was a newfound assurance about him, a sense of purpose that was intriguing and intimidating.
Lucinda’s pulse thrummed against her stays.
Mr. Wilberforce, among the few capable of tearing his gaze from Lord Sinclair, cast a significant look toward Lord Creswell. But his lordship’s countenance darkened, and he yielded the field without a word.
Across the room, behind the crowd, Johan van der Meer leaned against a pilaster, observing this English farce with amusement.
Miles, watching from the sidelines, offered silent thanks to the heavens. Alex’s bold bid had saved Lucinda from Creswell’s clutches and him from any embarrassment.
Lady Arabella, delighted by the dramatics, was yet shrewd and whispered to her long-lost nephew an impediment to the proceedings.
In response to her fierce whispering, Alex cried, “Miles! Raise your ticket, there.” To which his bemused and vastly relieved brother hastened to comply. “Very well, Mr. Wilberforce, place a one hundred pound bid against bidder seventeen.”
“Sold, one dance to Lord Sinclair,” Arabella announced with glee, “for one hundred pounds!” Her gavel descended with a crash, once more unsettling the long-suffering Mr. Wilberforce.
Shaking his head from the reverberation, he rose, thanked the final bidder for his generosity, and issued a reminder: “All bids are to be settled by the end of the evening, Lord Sinclair.”
Alex, with negligent ease, drew a sheaf of bills from his coat and presented them, their tally seemingly unknown to him. He came to Lucinda’s side and placed his forearm before her, on which she laid her hand.
“Can I assume I still address Miss Harrington?”
Though her heart raced at this unforeseen development, she mustered a semblance of composure and inclined her head.
He supported her from her step, guiding her away from the auction circle. “That is an unexpected relief, my dear,” he said, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes as they moved toward the edge of the crowd.
Miles watched as they left the auction circle, a triumphant smile on his face at the wide-eyed look Lucinda threw at him.
She was clearly taken aback by Alex’s sudden appearance and his audacious bid.
The evening had taken a turn that none of them had anticipated, and the thrill of it all sent a shiver of excitement through her.
“Did you indeed just pledge one hundred pounds for a single dance?”
“It’s possible I paid more, I do not precisely know,” Alex replied. “I deemed the prize worth any cost.”