Chapter 7
T heo had never placed much stock in that annual nonsense of naming a Diamond of the Season.
To him, it was little more than a ritual in which one unfortunate young lady was polished to an unnatural shine and trotted out like a prize filly for the ton ’s inspection.
The whole thing, he had always thought, was dreadfully overdone.
At least, that had been his opinion until approximately ten minutes ago – when Hetty Tolliver appeared at the top of the staircase and overturned every conviction he had ever held.
Her gown – good God, her gown – was a confection of pale blue silk, moulding to her form with a provocativeness that surely ought to be illegal in polite society.
Silver thread traced patterns across the bodice – floral, perhaps – though he could not be certain, so distracted was he by the daring plunge of the neckline once again.
Truly, he had endeavoured not to dwell upon her bosom since that very first ball, yet somehow those dreadful thoughts persisted, ever returning to torment his mind.
Her hair had been drawn up in some complicated twist that was artless and exquisite in equal measure, with a few disobedient curls brushing her nape and framing her face – a face he had known for years, and yet which now looked wholly unfamiliar in its startling effect.
Her eyes were sparkling with mischief behind the guard of a lace-trimmed fan, and Theo found himself momentarily struck by the absurd and unhelpful thought that if this was what a Diamond of the First Water looked like, he ought to have been paying far more attention to Society’s silly little traditions all along.
He had kissed her hand with all the polish expected of a gentleman, in a manner so restrained it could not, by any reasonable measure, be deemed improper.
Perhaps he had allowed the moment to linger a heartbeat longer than was strictly necessary, but such minor indulgences could hardly be held against him.
Theo reminded himself – sternly, though not altogether convincingly – that this entire charade was perfectly above board.
A modest scandal, she had insisted; a dash of impropriety, nothing more.
There will be no kissing, she had declared with the frosty hauteur of a duchess twice offered the wrong tea.
And then, lest her meaning not be perfectly clear, she had added that she would strike him with her fan should he so much as attempt it.
He ought, of course, to have taken that as a solemn warning.
Instead, the image had lodged itself in his mind with delight: Hetty, eyes aflame and fan raised, delivering a swift and dramatic blow to his person – most likely to the shoulder, though he would not put it beyond her to aim for the head, the chest, or God help him, lower still.
It would be, quite frankly, both uproarious and, if he were candid, rather exhilarating .
Not that he desired her to strike him, of course.
He simply would not object, necessarily, should it occur in a well-timed fashion, preferably before the keen eyes of a gossip columnist. And should she, in the ensuing moment, stumble into his arms, clutching his lapel for support and saying something breathless and unrepeatable…
well, it would be rude to waste the opportunity.
He drew a silver pen from his coat and moved to inscribe his name on her dance card to secure the first set, and the waltz as well. That, of course, was the precise moment the Viscount of Marchmont appeared, immaculately timed and insufferably pleasant. “Langley, how very good to see you.”
Theo turned, spine stiffening at once, though he hoped his expression betrayed nothing more than bland civility. “Marchmont.”
Lord Marchmont, perfectly composed in a coat that fit too well and a smile that suggested he had never once been denied anything he desired, offered a polite bow – first to Theo, then, with more feeling, to Hetty.
“I believe, Langley, you have the enviable distinction of acquaintance with the young lady presently rendering the rest of the room quite useless with admiration.”
“I do,” said Theo. “And as I believe you have not yet had the pleasure, allow me to make the introduction. Viscount Marchmont, may I present Miss Henrietta Tolliver. Miss Tolliver, Lord Marchmont.”
Marchmont turned his eyes upon Hetty as though she were a Botticelli muse, newly stepped from canvas to ballroom.
He bowed once more, rather lower this time.
“An honour, Miss Tolliver. I have been quite eager to make the acquaintance of the lady who dared baptise Lord Crimplethorpe’s waistcoat.
It was the most thrilling item in The London Season since a parrot escaped during supper at Devonshire House and took refuge in Lady Paget’s wig. ”
“Yes, well,” Hetty replied, inclining her head, “Lord Crimplethorpe has never been overburdened with a sense of humour. Or charm. Or conversational ability. Or, indeed... a chin.”
“A grievous deficiency,” Marchmont agreed with a smile.
“Though I must say, it requires no small measure of wit and timing to orchestrate a scandal with such elegance. I was quite enchanted.” He turned then, quite as though Theo no longer existed.
“If I may be permitted the honour, Miss Tolliver, I should be delighted to claim the next set.”
Theo’s brow arched with studied nonchalance. “You are fast off the ship, Marchmont. Where was it this time – Corfu? Corsica?”
“Florence,” said Marchmont, extending a hand to Hetty. “Though one need not linger in Italy to recognise beauty when it stands so very near.”
Hetty bestowed upon Marchmont a smile of such poise and brilliance that it could have felled empires, had it been aimed more wickedly.
“Let us dance, my lord,” she said, placing her gloved hand in his.
“And with luck, the scandal sheets will find it somewhat less objectionable than my last attempt at public amusement.”
Marchmont’s smile deepened as he led her away. “I shall endeavour, Miss Tolliver, to make it the most inspiring article they have ever printed.”
And Theo, left standing in their wake, could do little more than watch the pair depart: Marchmont smug as a cat fattened on cream, and Hetty radiant beneath the chandeliers.
A most unwelcome construction curled low within his chest, but it could hardly be termed jealousy.
He rather hoped – nay, he depended upon the notion – that she intended to douse Marchmont’s front with a glass of French wine ere the second turn.
Yes, that must surely be the case. The smile she bestowed before taking Marchmont’s arm was one of wicked purpose, not of coquettish invitation.
Theo exhaled, adjusting his gloves with all the dignity of a gentleman who was most assuredly not watching the pair too intently, nor straining to catch the sound of Hetty’s laughter drifting back to him.
No – this was certainly not jealousy – nothing so juvenile or unbecoming.
It was, rather, sober observation and rational appraisal.
Theo was well acquainted with the breed.
He had suffered their company in every club and drawing room from Pall Mall to White’s.
Viscount Marchmont was, in Theo’s estimation, the sort of gentleman who flirted not with sincerity, but as a matter of social habit.
Theo would have wagered a considerable sum that he had never heard a lady’s opinion without simultaneously composing his next compliment.
Hetty would be nothing more than a feather in his cap and then, once novelty waned, forgotten altogether.
No, Marchmont would not do for Hetty Tolliver, not by half.
The minuet commenced, and the ballroom shimmered with motion – gowns sweeping, diamonds catching the light, laughter rising above the hum of strings.
Theo stood apart, stationed near a marble column with his jaw set and hands clasped behind his back.
He was on the verge of retrieving another glass of champagne when a low chuckle caught his attention, drifting from the terrace doors .
Two gentlemen stood partially obscured by a potted palm with ruffled coats and glasses sloshing with brandy. Theo recognised them at once as idle sons of lesser baronets with more leisure than wit – precisely the sort who believed their birth excused their vulgarity.
“Say what you will about Miss Tolliver,” one of them slurred, “but by God, I doff my hat to her modiste. That gown… Lord above. I’ve seen less bosom in a bathing house.”
His companion snorted. “That bodice is a public service. I nearly choked on my wine when she walked past… thought her titties were about to introduce themselves before she did.”
“Brazen little minx,” the first continued, fumbling for his glass and missing it twice. “Struts about like she’s queen of bloody Babylon. Chin up, nipples out, as if every lad in London weren’t already picturing her legs up. Bet she moans like a duchess and bites like a doxy.”
Theo moved before rational thought could intervene. The sickening crack of knuckles against flesh rang out as he drove his fist into the man’s jaw.
The fellow gave a strangled yelp, staggered backwards, and collapsed into the ferns, dislodging leaves and a plume of soil as he went.
The noise silenced the room far more effectively than any declaration could have.
A dowager near the refreshment table let out a shriek; a footman, startled beyond reason, dropped an entire tray of ratafia glasses with a tremendous crash.
The music faltered mid-measure, the violins stumbling into a discordant tangle before succumbing to a stunned silence .
“Langley!” the other man cried, lurching back as his companion groaned on the floor. “Have you lost all reason?”
Theo adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, his knuckles already blooming red. “No. But I am very near to it.”
“You are mad, that’s what you are!”