Mary Crawford’s Debut #2
The viscount’s lips quirked into a small, enigmatic smile.
“I suspect, Miss Crawford, that your entire person is designed to steal my attention away from anyone else in the room. Allow me to be among the last this evening to wish you a happy birthday, though maybe not the least,” he said, his low voice settling on her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her back.
“You are perilously close, my lord, to forfeiting both, as the hour is late.” Taking in a calming breath, she inhaled a hint of bergamot that clung to his coat. If Mary had not had her wits about her, she was certain her legs might have given way.
“Then I shall take comfort in being remembered as the gentleman who arrived fashionably close to boorishness.”
“Let us pray you are not remembered that way too often.”
“Only when I wish to be. I would rather recall this evening as when you gifted me with all your smiles.”
“Gifted you?” Then, Mary looked at Lily and said playfully, “He mistakes my birthday for an occasion that belongs to him.”
Lily pressed her lips together as if to swallow her laughter but added nothing to the exchange.
“Does it not?” the viscount continued. “A night of celebration, dancing… and the first occasion of dancing with you? I assure you, Miss Crawford, I endeavour to commemorate the day annually.”
“Then I shall consider the evening a great success if it gained me one loyal celebrant,” Mary said with energy.
“You have gained one admirer, at the very least. And possibly, if you allow me the next dance, a devoted one.”
“I must beg your pardon, my lord, but my card is full until the last set.”
“Then I claim the last.”
“But not least. It is a waltz. You do know the steps?”
He pressed a kiss on her gloved hand. It was only the slightest pressure, but it was enough. As he stood to his full height, Mary could not hide the flush rising from her bosom to her neck, and his lips twitched.
“’Tis my favourite.”
She straightened her shoulders and turned to an amused Henry and Lily with a perfect mask of composure. “Brother, I believe Lily and I must spread a bit more canvas about the room before the dancing resumes.” She curtseyed and said, “My lord.”
After securing the next set with Lily, Henry winked at his sister as if to say, “I see what you are about,” making Mary want to roll her eyes. Instead, she said to Lily, “What strange creatures brothers are!”
As the ladies moved away, Mary knew the viscount’s regard followed her retreating figure, though she rebuked the urge to look back. Further, her uncle had invited half of London; there were plenty of distractions to keep her occupied.
When Mary and Lily reached the bevy of young ladies, Mary found they were indeed tittering over the attractive viscount.
Miss Townsend, sipping her punch, clutched Mary’s hand. “Well, do not think we missed that. You were barely in his company a minute, and the viscount already looks smitten.”
It took every fragment of her power, but Mary would not peek in his direction.
“Smitten?” Miss Bellamy flapped her painted fan dramatically. “Darling, if he stares any longer, he shall burn a hole straight through her bodice.”
Mary’s vanity swelled at the thought, but she refused to show her cards. “Nonsense, my brother Henry says Lord Halstead has a multitude of beauties flocking to him—”
“And who could blame them?” said Miss Stanhope.
“And he is forever breaking hearts about Town, n’est-ce pas?” Mary persisted.
Miss Townsend tutted and waved her hand as if to discount the notion. “You, Miss Crawford, have practically enthralled him.”
Miss Stanhope raised a pretty brow. “Not bad for a young lady who claimed she was only ‘coming out’ so she might enjoy the dancing with more than her brother and dancing master.”
“If you are not dancing with him by the end of the evening, I owe Miss Robinson a sovereign,” said Miss Bellamy.
“Ha!” Lily exclaimed. “Then I will end the evening no richer as the viscount has already claimed her last dance.”
The young ladies squealed. After accepting enthusiastic felicitations from the young ladies, Mary stole a look about the room.
Henry seemed engaged in some lively discourse with the viscount.
Halstead surveyed the room with the detached elegance of one well aware of his own magnetism, only nodding once as if his thoughts were elsewhere.
Was he waiting for something? Likely a moment to join the conversation, if Henry ever took a breath.
Or perhaps something—or someone—else? She, however, endeavoured to mirror Halstead as if she, too, were above it all entirely, taking in the scene with the unruffled composure of one who had long prepared for this evening.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, though seldom spoken in mixed company, that a ball is less a fête for pleasure than a trial of endurance.
It is a ritual of delicate refusals and artful civilities, and if fortune is kind, a fleeting glimpse of genuine attraction from a particular person across a brimming room.
One must not suppose, dear reader, that Miss Crawford was lost to the giddy excitement of the evening.
Though young, she was not so foolish as to believe all smiles were sincere nor all bows noble.
She hoped she had sense enough to discern the difference between a gallant offering his hand and a gentleman offering flirtation.
The dances were executed with admirable grace and the requisite cordiality, though not without internal commentary.
An ageing baronet, with cheeks as florid as the port he adored, squeezed her fingers during a cotillion and whispered flatteries which, had he been thirty years younger, might have earned a blush. As it was, he only netted a civil nod.
Next, a young gentleman whose misguided mother clearly had told him that he must “make a strong impression.” He did so.
His shoes squeaked, he perspired profusely, and he attempted to quote Pope—and missed.
Mary, though on the verge of laughter, did not allow it to break the surface.
Instead, she nodded with the practised patience of a governess listening to a child’s attempt at Latin.
Then, alas, a simpleton encased in blue velvet: one Mr Farnsworth, known for the considerable breadth of his waistcoat and the meagreness of his conversation. He danced as if the floor were his stage, twirling with such enthusiasm that poor Miss Stanhope was nearly taken out at the hem.
Despite these social trials—some salacious, some suffocating, some simply dull—Mary’s notice wandered to the athletic figure of Halstead, whose presence had been a restrained thunder since his arrival.
At the end of the dance, Mary almost stumbled in her curtsey when she espied the viscount standing but steps away from Lily, and he offered an arm to her friend with the refinement of a man accustomed to commanding interest without exerting any effort.
Lily’s eyes widened as broad as her surprised smile.
Mary found she was even more fascinated, and grateful, that he should ask her friend to dance.
Mary clutched her programme, not needing it to know there was one more dance until the waltz that would close the evening.
The master of ceremonies announced a Scottish reel next.
Captain Wendell, a fine-looking officer with more of a taste for flirting than for dancing, came to claim his dance.
Escorting her to the top of the set, he made his interest in her evident as his mien, though affable, betrayed a certain cunning.
The shift of his appraisal from her face to her slippers afforded more than a clue to his attraction; she had learnt as much by observing him and other gentlemen at her uncle’s dinners these last months.
“Miss Crawford,” he said with an exaggerated smile as they Chassé stepped, “I must say, you are remarkably composed for one so fresh from the schoolroom.”
“You do me an injustice, Captain,” she said, her tone light though her thoughts barbed.
“I assure you, I am nothing more than the modest niece of your admiral.” Good-looking and monied the captain may be, but there was something about his manner that she did not like.
He reminded her too much of her cavalier uncle.
“Nothing more? Modest? I would hardly say that. You carry yourself with the ease of one who has been the toast of London for years,” he countered smoothly, leaning close as they whirled past another couple.
The mischief-maker within her awoke. “Ah, but perhaps you mistake my ease for experience. I continue to spend more hours with my governess than in society’s more elevated circles.
” Her consideration flicked to Lily, who joined hands with the viscount as they pivoted, and Mary laughed at her private joke.
She had not lied to the captain; she still spent much time with her governess.
Captain Wendell, however, was not so easily diverted. “Your poise titillates me. Most young ladies are either too shy or too bold, but you, Miss Crawford, strike a perfect balance. Tell me, have you a special affinity for singularity?”
“Singularity? You are too droll. I prefer the far more sophisticated art of subterfuge. All things considered, it is far more diverting to outwit with words than with actions.” She smirked at her dance partner as they spun across the floor.
Before the captain could reply, the music swelled to a conclusion, and he guided them to the end of the reel.
“How delightful, Captain. I shall leave you to your next partner.”
“Miss Crawford,” he said with a frown, though his bow was gracious, “I must admit, you surprise me. I had thought you would make a far more willing companion for the rest of the evening.”
Willing for what? And with him? The presumption of the man!