Chapter Nine
Montaigne had seldom been so nervous for a ball. In fact, he usually regarded balls with the utmost emotional neutrality. Yes, they could be hot and uncomfortable and the company irritating, but they had also given him a fair bit of amusement over the years. Bad or good, a ball was customarily a place where he understood his role. Don full dress, show up, ask ladies to dance, retire to the card room. Much like the dances themselves, a ball had steps and, in his experience, as long as you followed them, you had no reason to worry. Even a reprobate like himself could get by that way.
But that was before he had set up a ball for the semi-clandestine purpose of wooing one lady.
Not that he had done much work to put together said event. His mother and sisters had, of course, superintended the preparations, and now he cast an eye around the ballroom and wondered if he should have taken a stronger hand. The guests were already beginning to be announced and so he knew, intellectually, that it was far too late to change anything. And yet he couldn’t help himself from whispering to his mother,
“You do not think the pink draperies too much?” He gestured to the blush fabric adorning the upper half of the high walls.
His mother looked at him with arched brows. “Petunia picked them. And since when do you care about ballroom draperies?”
“I only want everything to be proper,” he scoffed.
“I’m sure,” she said, her tone close to astonished.
He lost the next twenty minutes to the greeting of guests, as he and his mother stood and received them together. Thankfully, his mother was a popular and well-liked matron, with that rare combination of kindness and social grace that drew people to her. He was far too agitated to be more than adequate as a host. Luckily, she made up for him.
He saw Olivia enter the room with the Mappertons and, for a moment, his heart stopped. He completely forgot that he was talking to Lord and Lady Dalrymple, who were already apparently vexed with him for the business with their maid, Alice. But he couldn’t help his reaction. Not when she stepped into the ballroom in a white silk of such simple beauty. Not when the bodice was an inch lower than any he had yet seen her in. Not when she looked like a goddess, Athena or Hera, perhaps, come to change some poor mortal’s life. Her brown locks were piled on her head in one of the creations favored by ladies these days—and he couldn’t stop staring at the pale, delicious skin it revealed about her neck and shoulders.
Her eyes quickly found his in the crowd. Their gazes locked.
For a moment, he felt as if he were there only with her. As if she knew that he had built this ball so that she would come. Her honey-brown eyes widened slightly, her mouth parted. And then she turned away.
And he was facing down Lord and Lady Dalrymple once more, completely unsure of what the latter had just said to him, totally adrift as to how to form a response.
Once he had dispatched the couple, he spotted John and Catherine at the corner of the ballroom. Excusing himself from his mother’s side, he moved towards his friends. Given that John and Catherine had had their own complex love story, he felt particularly heartened by their presence and support. He felt they understood something of his experience of Olivia.
“Hello, Monty,” John said, when he reached them. “So, what is your plan?”
Montaigne laughed. “Well, this,” he said, indicating the ballroom and the guests milling about them.
“That is it?” Catherine said, her tone a touch too critical for his taste.
“Well—I plan to—I intend to speak with her alone.”
“But you’re the host of this affair,” John said, “It will be difficult for you to break away undetected.”
“True,” Montaigne answered. He had not exactly worked out how he would get Olivia alone, given the circumstances. Or if she would even be willing to speak with him privately.
Catherine sighed. She was giving off the clear impression that she found his lack of ballroom tactics a distinctly male oversight.
“If you want to speak to a lady alone at a ball, you have only a few options,” Catherine said tartly, “and fewer still if you want to minimize the risk of scandal.”
“I am listening.” His tone was grudging, but he knew he needed the direction.
“You can whisk her off to the library or the grounds,” Catherine said, “But if you are seen, it will be deadly for the reputation of the lady—and as your Olivia works as a companion, such an option is not acceptable.” Catherine paused. “Do you hear me? Not acceptable. She may not want to marry you. If you lose her her post, you’ll be a villain.”
“Alright, alright, I wasn’t—that wasn’t my plan,” Montaigne said, even though he was aware that it had not not been his plan. “What else?”
“You could sit with her in the corner, near the matrons and spinsters, but those ladies will pick up every word that you two say to one another. I would not suggest it. And you could dance, the waltz, of course, because you won’t be able to hear a thing during a quadrille. But dancing is hardly the ideal time for a talk of import.”
“Yes,” he said, his frustration mounting. It seemed speaking to Olivia, even here, where he thought it would be easier, was impossible. “In light of all of these enticing options, what do you recommend?”
Catherine bit her lip. “Well, it’s not perfect, but no option is. I’d advise you to ask her to dance and then to take a short airing on the balcony afterward. Neither is scandalous and you will have, hopefully, enough time to have a real conversation.”
“I am not sure she will dance with me.”
“Come, now, Monty,” John chimed in, “Have confidence. You are looking well.”
Montaigne rolled his eyes. “She doesn’t want to attract undue attention. Given her position and mine—and that of the Mappertons.”
“Well,” Catherine said, “You’ll need to convince her. And the waltz will be the song next, so I wish you luck.”
Montaigne grunted as Catherine and John drifted away. He was resentful of Catherine’s warnings but, also, grateful. He had imagined pulling Olivia into one of the downstairs rooms—his study, perhaps—and begging her to listen to him. But, to hear Catherine tell it, that would be risky and inconsiderate. And he couldn’t disagree with her assessment.
In which case, he needed to find Olivia for the waltz now.
Montaigne began to search the room, which was now almost completely full of guests. Finally, he spotted her, near the far wall. She was speaking to Viscount Brightley. The expression on her face, however, gave him no relief. Lord Brightley was a ton fixture. The man did not seem physically capable of missing a party or rout. Accordingly, a more pompous personage had never graced the surface of the earth. From the way his eye was trained on the dancers, and the way he seemed to be gesturing towards Percy and Natasha, he did not have a positive feeling about the exchange currently taking place.
He sped towards Olivia and Brightley and, as he drew nearer, he heard what the viscount was saying.
“—of course, you will not be offended, my dear, when I tell you that those who talk about a match between Lord Percy and Miss Mapperton gravely mistake the matter. The Carrington family is related to half of the first families in England—on my mother’s side, I am third cousins with the earl myself—and I can tell you, and you may want to give a hint to your Mrs. Mapperton on this score, that a scion of such a clan will not marry a lady of foreign extraction.”
Olivia’s face looked as grave as stone. But she merely replied, quietly, “I am sure you could not be mistaken about such a matter, my lord.”
“Perhaps, if her mother did not go about with her, the young lady could pass herself off better. But, such as things are, it is obvious that she is not wholly English. Not even wholly European, of course, despite her time in France. An Indian shawl on the arm of a young woman such as Lady Petunia is one thing, but an Indian sister-in-law? I am sure the earl could not sanction such a—”
“Out. Now.” Montaigne had reached Lord Brightley, after what felt like an eternity, and he had to work to speak in a tone below a bellow.
“Pardon me, Montaigne?” The old lord said, evincing only mild surprise.
“Take yourself, your wife, and your three daughters out of my home, at once, sir,” he commanded. He had known Lord Brightley since he was a child and had never found the man remarkable or worthy of notice before. Now, he couldn’t fathom why Brightley was regarded as respectable.
“My boy,” the old man said, “You seem to have the wrong end of the matter. I merely was telling Miss Weston here—”
“Miss Watson,” Montaigne corrected, working to keep his outrage under control. “You have been rattling on about matters that do not concern you and on which you have no right to speak. You have no more idea what I find acceptable in a sister-in-law than you have any notion of gentlemanly conduct. Go, sir. You are banned from this entertainment. And this house.”
He watched Brightley realize that he was serious. The man turned a very unbecoming shade of puce.
“If you think I will take such an insult silently, you are mistaken,” Lord Brightley said, his feet still unmoving.
Good god, would he have to haul the man from the room himself?
Caught up in trying to evict Lord Brightley from the premises, Montaigne had not noticed that the music had stopped. The first quadrille was over. And the Mappertons were now approaching Olivia.
“Will you dance next, Olivia?” said Nathanial Mapperton, before registering the tension in their little trio.
“What is the matter, Olivia?” Eloisa said, taking in her stricken expression.
Miss Mapperton said nothing. Nevertheless, she regarded Lord Brightley with a haughty look that announced her suspicions about who was responsible for Olivia’s discomfort.
“Lord Brightley was merely leaving,” Montaigne said, tightly.
“I expected far better from you,” the viscount admonished, “I’ve always disregarded the gossip. What a man does out of view of society is, to my mind, his matter. But I can see your taste for low company has begun to become irrational. Do not think that I do not know that this lady here,” he said, gesturing towards Olivia, “was once a maid in this very house. Well, you can assure yourself that you will hear of this conduct again. Your mother will be informed, most certainly. You will surely regret your infamous behavior for that lady’s sake. By even addressing this Miss Weston—” he gestured towards Olivia, “I was more generous than I ought to have been.”
“Do not speak of her,” Montaigne growled, grabbing the man by the collar. “I am within my rights to thrash you, sir, within an inch of your life.”
He wanted to throttle the man. Before he had been outraged by his comments about the Mappertons. But now Brightley had insulted Olivia. Olivia, whose kind brown eyes had contracted at the slight against her. Olivia, who, as long as he was living, he would never see insulted in this house. It took all of his control not to plunge the man to the floor. Only the hope that the evening could be salvaged, that he could still speak to Olivia alone, kept him from doing it. Because he knew, if he did throw the viscount to the ground, the evening would be over, for all intents and purposes.
Even now, he could feel heads around them turning. The crush of bodies could only hide what was happening for so long.
“Leave,” he said, releasing the viscount gently, so as not to attract any more undue attention. “And do not forget your wife and daughters. No Brightley is allowed here tonight.”
He knew that being dismissed in such a fashion would be an even more searing humiliation for the man if he had to tell his wife and daughters of it. Montaigne was not about to let him skulk off to White’s and pass the matter off as nothing. If Brightley wanted conflict, Montaigne was happy to deliver it.
“Have it as you wish, sir.”
Lord Brightley straightened his collar and stormed away. Montaigne felt satisfaction that the man had gotten what he deserved. Until he saw Olivia’s face.
Oddly, she did not look as if she had just been heroically defended. Rather, she looked a bit sick.
“Olivia, are you alright?” Eloisa asked once more, reaching out and touching her forearm.
“What a toad,” Natasha said, her typically laconic manner of speaking doing nothing to hide her repugnance for the departing lord.
“As I always say,” Nathanial said, his tone dry, “The French have nothing on the English by the way of gallantry.”
“I am fine,” Olivia said, “I just need a little fresh air. Excuse me.”
She pushed past Montaigne and headed for the balcony at the far right of the ballroom. As she did, he heard the tones of the waltz strike up. So much for dancing.
But if she were going out of doors, he would follow her. He might have cocked up the first part of his plan. Nevertheless, he had gotten her to the balcony, as Catherine had suggested, even if his method had been unconventional.
Excusing himself from the Mappertons, Montaigne followed Olivia across the ballroom.
His moment had arrived and it might not come again.
He had to seize it.