Chapter 43
The Duke of Somerset’s Twelfth Night Ball was a crush. Despite the cool weather, the windows were open. Ladies wore their best: silks, turbans, ribbons, and feathers of every shape, size, and colour were on display. The broadsheets would memorialise the Winter of 1811 as the Season of the Lily—every male attendee wore a coloured fleur-de-lis in his lapel, hoping to gain the attention of the Queen’s favourite. Yet, she will be mine, thought Marquess Beauford. He had assured his father of the match, which brought him rare praise. Beauford tried not to recall the lascivious smile the duke had worn when Miss Bennet’s beauty was described.
Miss Bennet was dancing the first set with Lord Matlock. Lesser hopefuls seeking her attention worked to avoid the earl’s glare but Beauford maintained his insouciance. Miss Elizabeth Bennet danced in her sister’s quadrille as she partnered with Darcy the dullard. Their pairing for the opening set had led to gossiping matrons whispering harshly at daughters. It was all very tiresome.
He had never before seen Miss Bennet relax her reserve—she floated and glided through the forms. The candlelight enhanced what was already difficult to ignore. Her allure was magnetic. She had eschewed her veils; her siren’s smile called to him. I must have her!
He was repeatedly rebuffed in his efforts to approach her. At the end of each set, the Fitzwilliam and Darcy fortress opened its gates and as she crossed its threshold, closed behind her. He choked upon his ardour.
The sisters exchanged dancing partners throughout the evening. Lord Matlock danced the second set with the latter as the elder Mr Darcy paired with the former. The third set added the ladies’ uncle, Edward Gardiner; he was merely a tradesman but well-connected and a man whose reputation warranted caution in any dealings. Beauford had never met the man, despite Gardiner’s usury when he had been too deep in his cups and too empty in his purse to be sensible. He involuntarily shuddered as he recalled his meeting with Roark.
Beauford sipped wine and continued to avoid the hopes of any other young ladies. His attention remained on the Bennet sisters. When Miss Elizabeth danced the supper set with Darcy, it became clear that one of the ton’s most eligible gentleman had been purloined. He is as rich and stodgy as she is handsome and lively. An odd match. It would be comical if he were not so invested in gaining her more beautiful sister’s favours.
Across the centre line, an unknown man followed Miss Bennet’s every step, a woeful look upon his admittedly handsome face. A visage that sported some unspecified familiarity. He signalled a footman. “Have my man enquire of the gentleman’s name, the one with the blue waistcoat.”
Minutes later, a note was discretely placed into his hand. Beauford unfolded a piece of blank paper. He turned and met his man at the nearest column.
“He is known as Mr John Smyth of Netherfield Park.”
“But?” asked Beauford.
“He is Lord Lambrook.”
Ah.Beauford smiled. “The prodigal cousin returns, n’est-ce pas?” His man nodded.
“Where is the Scotsman?” asked Beauford.
“Away, my lord.”
Then I shall quietly tie Lambrook’s garter.Beauford ambled around the ballroom, acknowledging connexions and bestowing false pleasantries to hopeful maidens and their mothers. He stopped next to his cousin. “This Season shall go down as one unmatched in its elegance, shall it not?”
“I find each Season pleasantly unique in its differing aspects,” replied Lambrook.
“Ah, but not every Season has a pair of sisters unmatched in beauty and grace.”
Lambrook did not reply, his eyes fixed upon the dancers. Beauford could not but be annoyed the man had yet to even look in his direction. He chuckled meanly. “Miss Bennet has an allure not seen in a generation, has she not?”
Lambrook’s posture stiffened.
This is too easy, by far.Beauford smirked. “I have not had the pleasure.”
“I am John Smyth of Netherfield Park in Hertfordshire. And you?”
“I am Marquess Beauford, heir to the Duke of Somerset. Welcome to my father’s ball,” he paused, “Cousin Lambrook.”
His cousin’s expression remained unchanged. “Thank you. Pardon my incivility for having attended uninvited.”
“Think nothing of it. Family, however distant and secretive, are always welcome.”
Lambrook smiled. He is a cool one, thought Beauford. “Have you come escorting Lady Lambrook? My father would be disappointed to miss dancing with a previous...lover.”
Lambrook turned and stared at him with malevolence. “You tread upon dangerous ground. Take care.” He returned his focus upon the dancers until the music ended. His eyes followed the Miss Bennets as they returned to the Matlock gathering.
“I see you focus upon the Bennet sisters.” Lambrook took no notice, so Beauford stepped to his front. “The Scarred Lily is most definitely worthy of my notice,” he added, sneering at him.
Lambrook leant forward so that his lips were nearly touching Beauford’s ear. “Should you dare approach Miss Bennet, you may name your second,” he whispered through clenched teeth before giving Beauford his back and walking away.
He is serious!The cut direct! From a nobody! Beauford’s anger flared hot. That is the feather that breaks the horse’s back.I will have my due!
He glared at Lambrook’s back one last time before turning and walking towards the card room, where he held court with his fellow viscounts, barons, and knights. All were in their cups. They slurred on and on of the dances they had failed to secure with the Season’s favourite.
“Who does Matlock think he is?” complained a tipsy baron.
“It is unfair to monopolise her sets,” another nobleman slurred. “I would only need a moment to charm her. And she would be mine!”
“Would she?” Beauford asked challengingly. “Any other takers? I seem to have no worthy competition.”
“I wager one thousand pounds I can turn her head. Faster than you can!” a viscount drunkenly replied. His boast was met with derision.
“I shall match him,” announced a baron.
“I raise your wager to fifteen hundred pounds,” countered another.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” cautioned Beauford. He looked about for errant ears. Seeing none, he leant in. “This seems a matter only the book’s table may resolve.”
“Hear, hear!” all acclaimed.
Beauford smiled. “Tomorrow, my friends. Tomorrow we shall see who is a man amongst men.”