Chapter Two #2
“How long are you in town for?” Rebecca asked, clearly thrilled to have more than just his counsel in finding a match. Or perhaps he was projecting his own relief. Lizzie had been the catch of her season, and might even enjoy chaperoning Rebecca instead of him on occasion.
“I haven’t decided. I couldn’t miss your first official ball, and then I’d hate to have to hear about your suitors from letters…”
“You could throw a house party,” Nathaniel suggested before turning to Rebecca.
His every instinct told him to stick to the shadows, away from the crowds and the incessant questions or condolences he knew were coming, but she was looking around the room with awe. And there was only so many times he could glare at approaching mamas before they refused to back down.
“In the meantime, how about I simply embarrass myself on that dance floor, if you would do me the absolute honor of your first dance?”
“I would be delighted.” Rebecca beamed, her eyes wide as they walked to the dance floor.
“Is it all that you expected?”
“It’s perfect,” Rebecca assured him. “Just like they described.”
Nathaniel ignored the pang and tried to smile, but she’d slipped by saying they. Lizzie would have been loath to recount all the dresses of her first season, but Josephine would have remembered every detail.
Rebecca was too enthralled to notice her mistake, so Nathaniel tried not to show it as he twirled her around the room, dancing with his ghosts.
“My, my, I haven’t seen the Earl of Lark in a ballroom in…I can’t even remember,” Mrs. Plimpton remarked when he danced past them.
Everyone had turned to watch when he’d come in, but even through his dark curls–which were a touch longer than was de rigueur, so they slightly hid his face rather than framing it–Frances could see he looked miserable, like this was the absolute last place he wanted to be.
Which might have to do with the many mothers attempting to get his attention.
Mrs. Plimpton would certainly have been one of them, were the baron not actively showing interest in Daisy.
“According to the society papers, he’s not interested in innocent, well-bred ladies,” Daisy whispered. “The more wanton the better.”
“Daisy Plimpton, we do not use that language, nor do we repeat such gossip,” their mother reproached.
“Of course not, Mama.” Daisy rolled her eyes. “I’m merely stating that he’s made it clear he has no interest in marriage.”
“All men think they don’t want to settle down, until they do,” Mama argued.
“They just haven’t found the right woman yet.” Frances smiled at her sister as the newly minted Viscount St. John stopped beside her, his eyes seemingly on the earl as well.
“Or the right encouragement,” her mother agreed, pursing her lips as she noticed the viscount, which usually meant she had some sort of plan. Probably to get him to dance with Daisy, or stop by for tea. Mama was an expert at wording invitations so people had no choice but to accept.
“Lord St. John, I do believe you promised my dear Daisy a dance.”
Case in point.
In reality, Mama had accosted him at a recent event to congratulate him on the new title, then asked if he planned on dancing, to which he replied he had to leave, but perhaps another night. Hardly a promise.
The viscount looked to Daisy with confusion for a second, then to Mama, and either remembered the exchange, or pretended to.
“I did, didn’t I? Mrs. Plimpton, you have an excellent memory.”
“You are too kind, my lord. I simply know her dance card is almost full, and I would hate for you to miss out.”
It was bold of Mama to phrase it like Daisy was the catch, but Lord St. John had come into his title less than a year ago, and Frances heard gossip he’d been a stable hand before. While he was now one of London’s most eligible bachelors, there were some who refused to look past his upbringing.
“No, we wouldn’t want that,” he agreed. “Miss Daisy—”
“I would love to,” Daisy cut him off, then followed him onto the floor.
The viscount had smiled at the interruption, but Mama looked affronted.
“What manners were those?”
“Perhaps he appreciated her eagerness,” Frances suggested.
“Or she’ll lose his interest and gain a reputation. You girls will be the death of me.”
Frances assumed her mother was including her elder sisters in that statement. Mary had married a vicar instead of a marquess, and Iris’ betrothal was both sudden and necessary to preserve her honor.
“Shall I get you a lemonade? And some biscuits?” Frances anticipated when her mother brought her fingers to her temple.
“Yes, please do.” Mama sighed and took a seat, her fan doing little to appease her nerves.
Rebecca looked over and waited for Nathaniel to nod before accepting any invitation to dance, which he appreciated, but he wasn’t one of the anxious mothers doing everything in their power to have their daughters married off.
While he would prefer to never see the inside of another ballroom, he also thought Rebecca was young to marry, and wanted her to enjoy a season and discover what she wanted before finding someone whose company she truly enjoyed.
He cared nothing about titles or livings, as long as the man could make her smile.
“Lord Lark.”
Never had his own name so grated on his nerves as this evening, hearing it at least a hundred times from all the mothers introducing him to their eligible young daughters.
“Miss Caulder,” he acknowledged her with a strained smile.
She’d been a debutante back when Nathaniel attended every dreadful one of these parties for the chance to dance with Jo.
As he’d been raised a gentleman, he’d also danced with nearly every other young woman, Miss Caulder included.
As far as he recalled, she was an excellent dancer, but her disparaging remarks about her cohort had left a bad taste in his mouth.
“It’s Lady Markham now,” she said proudly. “Have you met my youngest sister, Miss Henrietta Caulder?” She motioned to the blonde woman behind her, who curtsied to him.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“I take it your presence tonight means you have finally decided to settle down and take a wife?”
Unlike the other ladies this evening, who’d skirted around the topic, Lady Markham came out and said it.
“No, I am merely escorting Miss Turner.” He nodded toward his cousin, reminding himself why he was out in public after years spent avoiding any hint of polite society.
“Perhaps next year.” The young Miss Caulder smiled demurely, clearly trying to convey that she was interested whenever he was ready.
“I have no intentions of marrying. Ever.” His tone was clipped, a warning that he meant it with every fiber of his being, not as the challenge some women viewed it as.
“But you’re an earl,” Lady Markham said, as if he’d somehow forgotten.
“Yes, and I have three younger brothers. Surely one of them will do.” He signaled to a footman who carried a tray of champagne, then drank it before Lady Markham recovered from her shock.
“You’re hardly endearing yourself to the fairer sex with that kind of—”
“I wasn’t trying to.” He put the flute down and managed a “Good evening” before retreating. He’d behaved rather poorly, but infinitely better than he could have.