Chapter Twelve
Preparations Are Made for the Ball at Almack’s
A generous tea that afternoon was woefully short of participants.
The earl had excused himself, saying he would spend the remainder of the afternoon at his club.
Fiona returned to find Octavia and Miss Ernest had traveled to Bath soon after returning from the circulating library. The house seemed empty indeed.
She picked at her biscuits and answered a few questions about the ride in Rotten Row without revealing anything amiss.
Thankfully, Lady Amelia didn’t press for details.
Valentina cast a concerned glance at her but remained silent.
After tea, a game of écarté took place in the drawing room, but Fiona begged off to practice.
The standing clock in the hall struck six o’clock when Valentina wandered into the music room, carrying a book.
“Here is Sense and Sensibility. I hope you will enjoy Miss Austen as much as I do. I find her books charming, but Mama prefers melodrama.”
“Thank you for remembering me. I believe I shall go upstairs and read a bit.”
“Mama is finishing up some letters. She asked if we wanted a light supper before leaving for the ball.”
“I couldn’t eat. My stomach is in knots about tonight, and I’m afraid Lord Merrick is quite angry with me.” She told Valentina about the meeting with Mrs. Davenport and the Marquis of Fellingham.
“Don’t put too much emphasis on it. I’m sure Richard is merely angry at himself for not deflecting their mischief. And I was wrong to spread gossip.”
“But I should not have repeated it,” Fiona said unhappily.
“Tell him that,” she urged. “Richard never carries a grudge. But I’ve wondered why you two always seem at odds.”
“I suppose I’ve enjoyed too much freedom in my life.” Fiona shrugged. “In comparison, your brother’s dictates seem overpowering.” Secretly, she was convinced he enjoyed his position of power and objected to any sign of independence on her part.
“You could do worse in a guardian, I promise. However, I won’t speak of it again. Let me dress first and then send Betty to you. We usually leave at about nine thirty; the doors close at eleven o’clock. Are you nervous about tonight?”
“I fear dancing badly more than anything else. I hope no one will notice me in the crowd.”
“There is little chance of that. You are too beautiful not to be noticed. Just sit out every other dance, and only accept a waltz from Richard, or perhaps Denys,” she advised.
“Why are there so many unspoken rules of behavior and restrictions?” Fiona grumbled. “Someone needs to write a manual.”
“Richard and I will guide you, depend upon it. I enjoy your piano playing so much, Fiona, and I know Richard is pleased to have music in the house again. Would you be willing to perform at a soirée or musical gathering?”
“Perhaps. But I wouldn’t play sedate parlor pieces if I did. The music that moves me is probably not suitable for a woman by the standards of the ton.”
“Oh, bother that. Your playing is exquisite.”
“Why did your brother lose interest in the piano?”
Valentina’s expression grew sad. “Our father always ridiculed Richard’s musical talent, demanding he ride or shoot instead.
Then we had to sell a great many things to pay Father’s debts, and the piano was the first. I was very young, but I remember that day and how upset Richard became. He never mentioned music afterward.”
Fiona took her book and walked upstairs to her room, digesting what she had just learned about the earl.
Richard seethed with anger as he strode to his chamber, tossing gloves and hat carelessly on the bed as John hovered nearby.
He changed in silence and handed his valet the discarded clothes.
Once attired in dress breeches and a newly pressed cambric shirt, Richard sat down at his dressing table with a freshly starched cravat.
“Shall I put out the black or the navy coat, my lord?” John asked as the crumpled cravat landed on the floor. Richard took a fresh one and focused on the mirror.
“Pick one. It does not matter to me.” He ignored the valet’s startled look and finished tying his cravat á la Parisienne. It was not the best version he had ever completed and for once, he did not give a damn about the color of his coat.
How on earth did he let Fiona Rafferty get under his skin?
Her remark about Eleanor Davenport was common knowledge, but to say it aloud was beyond the pale.
And worse, his annoying ward sat a horse as if she was born on one, leaving him preoccupied with her slender waist and sweetly curved derriere.
Her sudden interest in William Denton provoked a wave of anger he could not explain.
Although it was a perfectly sensible solution to his problems, Fiona would not marry Sir William.
Why, he had no idea—but he was determined to see that it never happened.
And then to argue publicly and challenge his decision.
Neither his mother nor his sisters ever had the temerity to question his judgment.
Well, perhaps that was not entirely true, but close.
Eleanor’s subtle barbs and Fellingham’s outrageous flirting had infuriated him even more than Fiona’s impossible behavior. All in all, the ride had been a disaster.
He impatiently waved away John’s suggestions as to his waistcoat and picked the first one at hand, then shrugged into the coat held by the valet. Thanking him gruffly, he took the formal gloves offered to him and left the room much in the same manner he had entered it.
It was close to nine before Betty came to Fiona’s room, and she apologized profusely for keeping her waiting.
“I am so sorry, miss, but Miss Valentina’s hair was very challenging and took far longer than I had expected.”
“She probably changed the style more than once, didn’t she, Betty?”
The maid chuckled and pulled out the spindled chair from the dressing table. Fiona unbuttoned her dressing gown and sat obediently. She had already dressed in the thin silk chemisette laid out for her and had added ivory stockings and garters.
By the time Betty finished fashioning Fiona’s curls into an intricate topknot with numerous braids and accents of silver tissue, the clock showed a quarter to ten.
She gingerly stepped into the new dress, pulling her arms through as Betty adjusted it and began to button the back.
“Are you sure I don’t need a corset or a full chemise?” She went to the mirror, turning this way and that. The short chemise included with the gown came only to her thighs and there was no boning anywhere to be found, just the barest support for breasts and waist.
“Oh, no, Miss Fiona, that would spoil the lines to be sure.”
The elegant satin dress was pale turquoise and clung tenaciously to her lithe figure. A silver gauze overskirt hung with tiny sparkling stars meant to lend modesty, but its transparency did little to disguise anything.
After fastening her earrings and adding a dab of pomade to her lips, she thanked Betty and hurried to the stairs.
She paused on the landing to pull on a pair of elbow-length gloves and heard Lady Amelia’s little gasp of surprise echo in the atrium.
Valentina and the earl looked up from their conversation.
She hesitated. Was the empire-style gown, with its tiny, puffed sleeves and precariously modest décolleté wrong in some way? She nervously clutched her matching reticule and the Grecian shawl of silver crepe.
Something passed across the earl’s face as she descended. What was amiss? Had she forgotten anything? She stumbled on the last step, but recovered and lifted her chin, refusing to melt into a puddle under his scrutiny.
“Exquisite, Mother,” Lord Richard murmured at last. “You and Brigitte have outdone yourselves.”
Valentina clapped her hands in delight. “You look like a fairy princess, Fiona.”
“And you look positively ethereal. Like Aphrodite from myth.”
Her friend was a delicious confection in the palest-pink sateen, with golden hair twisted and held with pink roses, and a single curl falling over one alabaster shoulder.
She wore lustrous pearl drops in her ears and a matching choker.
Fiona had decided against jewelry, except for the aquamarines glittering from her earlobes.
“What a shame Octavia is not here to see us,” Valentina said. “I hope she is having a good time visiting Aunt Charlotte in Bath.”
“I know, my dear,” Lady Amelia agreed. “But Charlotte has been so despondent since her husband’s death. She begged me to send Octavia and Miss Ernest. How could I refuse?”
Richard raised her hand to his lips. “Mother, you are as elegant as always, and an inspiration to us all.”
Lady Amelia glowed with pleasure. She wore deep-rose taffeta, and white Minerva plumes adorned her curls, while an impressive diamond pendant hung from her slender neck.
“I recognize the style of your cravat, Richard,” she said. “The Parisienne, is it not? A most elegant arrangement. The Duke of Henry attempted one last week and made the most dreadful mess.”
Fiona could not help but admire how perfectly the earl’s black coat molded to his broad shoulders and narrow waist. She had heard men sometimes wore a girdle to contain their figure if they were vain enough.
Lord Richard had no such need. The tight satin knee breeches emphasized his corded thighs.
Her guardian wore the white stockings and black shoes of formal dress, which served only to accentuate the strong muscles of his calves.
His shirt points were modest, and a snowy-white cravat cascaded in intricate folds above a silver-and-black satin waistcoat.
She felt a flutter in her stomach. Despite her irritation at his autocratic ways, she had to admit Lord Richard was a handsome man.
He indicated the foyer. “The carriage is waiting, ladies. Jerome will drive and stay with the horses. A footman will accompany him.”
“But it will be hours before we return,” she objected without thinking.
“Believe me, Fiona, a visit to Almack’s is the highlight of Jerome’s week,” Lord Richard replied with an amused smile. “He will visit with numerous friends, show off his fine grays, and lose a good part of his wages dicing. I know my tiger well, thank you.”
He had used her given name. Was it possible he was no longer angry? She vowed to apologize for her part in their argument at the first opportunity. Her father had often warned her to mind her hot temper, which always dissipated quickly and usually left her with regrets.
Lord Richard took the silver shawl from her hands and settled it across her shoulders.
“The night air carries a chill.” As the silky crepe settled against her skin, he bent close. “You must save your first dance and the waltz for me.” There was a note of command in the quiet voice.
She stiffened. He met her gaze, lifting his dark brows. Staring into the blue-flecked irises, she had sudden butterflies in her stomach. The thought of dancing with anyone else seemed dull indeed.
Once outside, the footman helped Lady Amelia and then Valentina into the coach. It gleamed black under the lamplight, stamped with the gold-and-red Seldon crest. The four showy grays in harness fidgeted a bit, blowing puffs of warm air into the night.
Lord Richard offered his hand to her and Fiona mounted the steps onto the seat opposite the ladies.
A moment later, the conveyance dipped as his large frame filled the doorway.
He settled into the cushions next to her.
The door closed with a snap, and she heard the steps fold against the side.
The coach rocked slightly; Jerome and his companion must have mounted the driver’s perch.
There was a small lurch, and they were off.
Inside, the air was tight with anticipation.
Valentina fidgeted, adjusting her earrings.
Smoothing the pink satin of her gown, she peered anxiously outside the window.
“Thank goodness the ride will be short. I vow, Fiona, I am more excited than I was on my very first visit to Almack’s.
It is all new again, seeing it through your eyes.
How wonderful to have a friend to share the Season. ”
She smiled and reached across to squeeze Valentina’s hand. “You and your family have been so generous in your welcome of me. I hope you know I am grateful. To all of you.”
During the drive, it was difficult to remain unaffected by Lord Richard, whose thigh lay mere inches from hers.
The sheer power of his size and masculinity radiated in the crowded interior.
Occasionally, she caught the drift of cedar and bergamot and knew she would forever associate that scent with this night and with him.
When they reached their destination, she looked over at the heavily lit stone building. There was an impressive line of carriages at the curb. The coach stopped behind an incredibly ornate six-horse vehicle, laden with gilt and scrollwork.
The footman assisted Lady Amelia onto the graveled path. Then the earl alighted, giving instructions to Jerome. When it was Fiona’s turn to descend, the gloved hand that extended was Lord Richard’s. He smiled in reassurance and she gathered her skirt with one hand and stepped down to the curb.
It was hard not to be intimidated by the endless parade of vehicles and the richly dressed guests milling around them.
She might have hesitated, but his firm hand remained under her arm as he negotiated the thick congestion of people.
She finally stood at the doors of Almack’s.
Fiona took a deep breath as they opened to a flood of noise and bright light.