Chapter Two
Huntingdale House, Mayfair, London
Half-past eleven in the evening
Judith pressed a gloved palm to her cheek, feeling the heat of her face through the pale-green silk.
She gave a slight curtsy of thanks to her dance partner, who took his cue, murmured his own gratitude for the spirited reel, and backed away.
Judith rested her other hand against her stomach, pausing to catch her breath, then lowered both as she headed for a beverage table near the far wall, mulling over two rather unkind thoughts.
The first was that the young gentleman should never again dance a reel, ever.
His awkward prancing through the fast-paced dance reminded her of an ancient horse with a stone in its shoe.
Steps that should have been light and rapid had been heavy and hobbled as he favored his left foot, as if it dragged a ball on a chain.
He had trod on her toes twice, startling her.
Judith suspected his bed play would have the same flaws in rhythm and immediately felt a stab of grief for his future wife.
And while he seemed to be a kind soul—one could never really tell, since gentlemen tended to be on their best behavior at a ball—his conversational skills bore far too much resemblance to his dancing ability for her comfort, all one sided and stilted.
Judith paused and gave her dance card a quick glance to reassure herself that he had not claimed a second trip around the floor.
Then she patted the side of her small, light-green cap to see if he had dislodged it in his overenthusiastic turns and gyrations.
No, it still retained its place on the crown of her head, and all the feathers still pointed in the right direction.
The color perfectly accentuated the silver highlights in her chestnut hair, as did the metallic trim along the split sleeves and hem of her silk gown of the same pale green.
A similar-colored ribbon circled the gown under her breasts, culminating in a bow at the back and ribbons trailing down along the train.
Judith pushed one of the pins holding the cap more firmly into place, took another breath, then sauntered closer to the beverage table.
Her second unkind thought was that Dorothea, Countess Huntingdale, should never again host a ball, ever.
The house’s ballroom—too small by far for anything other than a limited gathering, such as a soiree or musicale—quickly overheated, especially in July, even in this exceptionally cool year.
Being an adept hostess among the ton consisted of far more skills than what dishes to serve at supper and which musicians to hire for dancing.
Battlefield strategy, for instance, came to mind.
And the Earl Huntingdale, while notable in Parliament, did not appear to have the social stamina to deal with the offended members of the ton who had not received an invitation. Again, a weakness of the hostess, who did not seem to know whom best to invite and whom to ignore.
Unfortunately, at least for Judith’s interest, this resulted in an appalling lack of suitable dance partners and potential lovers.
Judith did feel a pang of sympathy for the four daughters of the Huntingdale family, the first of whom would make her debut in three years.
Poor child. With that inept a mother, she would surely be delivered into the cesspool of the ton woefully unprepared for the political and social manipulations of those around her.
Judith glanced around the ballroom as she strolled.
The next slot on her card remained empty, a relief since she needed a break from the crush to regain her bearings and take another stock of the room.
Although now crowded with dancers attempting a cotillion without running into the walls, the small room was elegant, with its pastoral frescos covering the ceiling and walls.
Plaster medallions covered with gold leaf anchored the four primary chandeliers, also gold, each of which held at least 120 candles, adding to the growing heat.
The parquet floor gleamed with polish—making it treacherous for satin slippers—but in the center, an elaborate chalk painting of the Acropolis, now smeared beyond recognition, had aided the dancers.
Judith glanced down at her own chalk-covered slippers and hem, hoping Epworth could clear the dust remnants settling amidst the silver embroidery.
She could hear the scolding tongue clucks of her modiste as well as her maid in the back of her head.
The intricate stitching that circled the base of her dress would take some gentle and determined brushing.
Although most ladies did not wear a ball gown twice, Judith often did, especially since her husband’s death.
She had been frugal before with the household finances.
Now she was downright stingy with her widow’s portion.
As a dowager countess and no longer a debutante seeking a mate, new gowns for every season made for an unnecessary luxury.
Tonight’s gown, in fact, dated from the 1811 season, refreshed by her modiste with new trim and frills, along with the feather-festooned cap.
Turning away from the dancers, Judith picked up a cup of lemonade from the beverage table, sipped, and winced. The lack of sugar in the swill made for a bitter and lasting aftertaste.
“I’m afraid it’s either that or the ratafia. They will not bring out the champagne until midnight.”
Judith looked over her shoulder to see a tall, dark-haired man standing beside her stepson.
His mouth formed an arrogant smirk, but his deep-blue eyes gleamed with an unexpected humor.
The elegant simplicity of his black-and-white evening kit stood apart from some of the gaudier attire of the other gentlemen—including her own stepson’s burgundy, green, and gold—but the cut of his clothes and the quality of his silk waistcoat and cravat spoke of a casual wealth and status.
Judith set down the cup. “Probably the most judicious choice our hostess has made all night, given that this is worse than the sluice at Almack’s.
And I would rather drink poison than ratafia.
Champagne too early and her guests would quickly gulp down her best offering, leaving none for the supper. ”
“The supper will not be much better either.” The smirk did not relent, even as he spoke.
“Spoken like a true veteran of the Marriage Mart.”
“Only of the edible fare. I have steered clear of all other offerings.”
“A hard-won wisdom, my lord?”
Those eyes sparkled. “A spurious wisdom, I’m afraid, my lady.”
Edmund cleared his throat. “Excuse me. Lord Mark, may I present my stepmother, our dowager countess, Lady Sculthorpe, Judith Lovelace. Mother, this is Lord Mark Ry—”
“The Duke of Embleton’s son?”
Lord Mark gave a crisp bow. “The second one, yes, although it is my oldest brother who is now duke. It is a pleasure, Lady Sculthorpe.”
“I did hear about the loss of your father. I am sorry.”
His lips pressed together. “I thank you.”
“And you are second of eleven, if I remember.” Judith waited for the man’s response and was not disappointed.
His eyebrows arched and the smirk vanished, as did the gleam. “Nine these days.”
“All children are important to be counted.” Judith’s own losses were never far from her mind. “All are precious.”
His eyes narrowed, studying her, tiny creases appearing at each side.
He tilted his head to one side, and the candlelight over his head caused the faint silver streaks in his ebony hair to glimmer like a light dusting of snow.
Yet “handsome” did not quite describe the clean lines of his jaw and aquiline nose, his sculpted cheekbones, or silken curls.
To have such a man focus on her made Judith’s stomach tighten with an unexpected glee, and she fought to keep her expression calm, not completely succeeding.
Edmund cleared his throat again.
Judith touched her stepson’s arm. “Do you need some air, sir? It is rather stuffy in here.”
That gleam returned.
Edmund’s cheeks pinked. “No.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Mother, please.” He straightened and took a deep breath. “I brought Lord Mark over because I know him to be a good dancer. I realize he is a little older than those you usually choose—”
Mark’s eyes snapped toward Edmund. “I beg your pardon?”
“So few men my own age can maintain pace with me.”
Those eyes turned back to hers. “Do I hear a challenge in that statement, Countess?”
“Lady Sculthorpe, please, as I am the dowager. Perhaps you did. If you think there is one to be heard. Are you my own age?” A rude inquiry, but that had never stopped Judith before.
“The next dance, I believe, is a quadrille.” He held out his hand, ignoring her question.
She raised hers, the dance card and its attached pencil dangling from her wrist. “Probably wise to start simply.”
Edmund rolled his eyes as Lord Mark signed the card. “Now you see why I prefer to attend Society events with my wife. She is far more docile.”
Lord Mark paused, then added his name to a second dance. “Docility is not always an admirable quality.”
Judith watched him sign. “Ah. I like a man who has lofty expectations.”
Lord Mark released the card. “I merely enjoy adventures where I can find them. Large or small.”
With another roll of his eyes, Edmund wandered off, and Lord Mark offered Judith his arm.
She took it, amused by some of the sly glances and fluttering fans that followed her escort to the dance floor.
Lord Mark was exceptionally attractive—uncommon for such a staid and limited event.
The more eligible bachelors of the ton often sought out a larger field of play, such as Almack’s or a grander ball.
Perhaps he does not consider himself eligible, given his reputation.