June Calvin (3 page)

But it had never happened. She had been a young chit in her first season when he turned twenty-one and abruptly married his rustic bride. Lydia had, perforce, to accept Smithfield, without a title to his name, nor much in the way of looks, but with a comfortable fortune which was now hers.

She had attempted to interest the duke in subsequent years, when it would have been reasonable to assume he had begun to be bored with his wife and would be looking for a mistress. But he had always treated her with aloofness that was barely polite, just because she had snubbed his precious Eleanor.

But that was long ago. Doubtless, he had forgotten all that by now. He was here, and single, though there would be intense competition for his interest. An unmarried duke was a magnificent prize in the marriage mart. He had hardly been able to move around the ballroom for matchmaking mamas throwing themselves and their daughters in his way.

Lydia doubted that such tame fare would interest the duke now. No less assured than Lord Morton that her youthful looks were untarnished, she meant to entice Harwood as she had so many other men in the years since her boring husband had taken himself off to the country and his coin collection, leaving her to enjoy herself in the
ton.

Her flawless creamy complexion had not suffered overmuch through the years, and she had kept her lush figure. That her red tresses owed more to her hairdresser now than to nature was not, she believed, easily discerned.

Yes, she would have him! Now that Smithfield had finally condescended to stick his spoon in the wall, she fancied herself a duchess. That her husband would be a handsome, virile man was icing on the cake.

Mrs. Smithfield was not at all pleased to see the Dowager Viscountess Cornwall on the duke’s arm. Competition was to be expected, but Lydia realized uncomfortably that Lady Cornwall was looking remarkably fine. She began to scheme on ways to separate the two.

***

There was a third very interested observer of the duke and Lady Cornwall’s promenade around the ballroom behind their daughters. Henry Fortesque, only son and heir of Baron Egerton of Sandhill Close, studied the two young girls carefully. His hostess, eager to deflect his attention from her own daughter Penelope, had told him about them. Two heiresses at the first ball of the season! How wise he had been to skip the cockfight to attend the Penwickets’ ball.

Of the two, the taller one appealed to him most, partly because she was so obviously a green girl that she would be easy to attach, and partly because the little blond beauty was Harwood’s child. Henry shook his head. He would not care to tangle with that father, should the duke set his mind against the match.

But the Cornwall chit had no father, and her guardian had not come up to town with the mother. Henry couldn’t wait to brag to Alexander about his discovery. Wouldn’t Alex regret having disdained the Penwickets’ ball as likely to be a paltry affair?

The two young men made bachelor’s quarters together, though they were as much rivals as friends. How chagrined Alex would be to learn that Henry had not one, but two pretty birds in his sights on this very first night of the season!

***

Deborah had listened sympathetically to the duke’s recital of his concerns for Sarah and now felt called upon to make some reciprocation.

“I have been taken by surprise by Jennifer’s awkwardness. You would not credit it, but at home she seemed so poised. She has suddenly taken a notion to be self-conscious of her height. Of course, I can understand that, being something of a Long Meg myself.”

“And rightly self-conscious, too. For what young man would wish a tall, graceful female at his side whom he needn’t stoop to partner in the dance, when he can have a chit half his size to add challenge and spice to the endeavor?”

Deborah tilted her head to one side, trying to decide if she had received a set-down. The duke was unsmiling, though his eyes sparkled. Then she remembered that Harwood was given to odd and occasionally sarcastic humor. Eleanor, she recalled, had never seemed the least intimidated by his remarks, and he had always seemed to delight in her spirited retorts.

Surprising herself, Deborah responded to his teasing in kind. “What you say must be true, Harwood, now I recall—for Eleanor was scarcely taller than your Sarah.” Suddenly aware of the flippant nature of this reference to his deceased wife, she held her breath as she braced for an angry response.

“Yes, and we did not even have the waltz to contend with then. Today’s youth have so much more cogent reasons for despising a lovely girl who can look them in the cravat.”

Deborah shook her head, relief making her a little limp.
He wasn’t offended
. “You . . . you
are
roasting me?”

“No, am I?” But he smiled and patted her gloved hand where it rested on his arm. “Your daughter will come about. Mayhap there is somewhere a likely young man of Sarah’s height who will desire Jennifer of all things, out of the sheer perversity of youth.”

Deborah giggled. It surprised and charmed her to realize that the duke, who seemed so aloof, was savoring quizzing her and watching her response. “Well, I hope you know such a one, sir, for I am sadly out of touch. I have been wracking my brains as to how to help Jennifer meet eligible young men when I have so few acquaintances left in the
ton
.”

“I do not think that will be a problem any longer.” The duke winked at her and nodded toward where Sarah and her new friend were just coming abreast of a cluster of exquisitely dressed young men.

Chapter 3

The moment Sarah had been dreading for months was at hand. When her father had insisted she accompany him to London, she knew that she must face her friends and acquaintances of the previous season. There would be everything from teasing to pity to be endured as they realized that the “understanding” she had used last season to discourage suitors had not resulted in marriage.

How she yearned for the support of Davida Gresham, her best friend, now that the embarrassing moment could no longer be postponed. But Davida was still in Yorkshire with her new husband.

Sarah was grateful to have her new acquaintance, Jennifer Silverton, by her side as she approached the cluster of young men. Jennifer’s shyness and lack of ease seemed somehow to help Sarah feel more poised.

She quickly assumed command of the situation, introducing her new friend around with a sprightly patter that prevented any questions from being posed. She was aided in her object when a spirited competition broke out between the two tallest young men, Lord Threlbourne, and the slightly shorter Mabry Ventner. They immediately began to vie for Jennifer’s hand for the next set. Sarah ended the dispute by linking her arm through Gilbert’s, as being the least likely to seek to embarrass her.

The red-haired young viscount willingly allowed himself to be commandeered. Sarah fleetingly wondered where his fiancée was, the one he had spoken of so often last year as being still in the nursery. The family-sponsored match was expected to take place this year after Threlbourne’s cousin had made her curtsy and enjoyed a season.

Of course, Sarah was the last one to bring up the subject of a missing fiancé. Instead, she turned around to introduce all four young men to Lady Cornwall, who was quickly importuned for dances with Jennifer.

Harwood stood back a little from the lively group, smiling and breathing a deep, inward sigh of relief. It was going to be all right. His Sarah was naturally gregarious. Once she got past this first evening in the
ton
, surely she would be fine—especially with a new friend to confide in. Unless he missed his guess, his daughter and Jennifer were going to be close friends in no time.

“Justin! Justin Stanton. How wonderful to see you again!”

The duke turned at the sound of his name and found his arm under attack by a buxom redhead who seemed suddenly to have attached herself to him.

Harwood had a strong aversion to being physically accosted in this manner, but he could hardly shake this woman off in a ballroom with the icy disdain he might have shown her had she thus approached him on the street, like the
femme de nuit
whose behavior she seemed to copy. Instead, he drew himself up to his full, imposing height, gave her his most repressive stare, and murmured, “I apologize, ma’am, but I do not recall your name.”

“But surely you must! We were once such good friends.” Lydia was actually pleased that he didn’t remember her. That meant perhaps he had forgotten her behavior toward his precious Eleanor.

“I am sure we must have been, for you to feel free to destroy the sleeve of my coat in this manner; however, I do not recollect you.”

“La, Justin.” She swatted at his chest with her fan. Belatedly becoming aware that his attitude had passed reserve and gone to outright anger, she lifted her hands from his arm. “I shall give you three guesses. Or perhaps . . . here is a Langler beginning. I shall give you until we have completed it to remember. Doubtless it will come back to you as we dance together; we were ever a most delightful pair.”

“I beg to be excused; I do not dance this evening, as I am chaperoning my daughter.”

Nothing if not persistent, Lydia laughed. “She has taken the floor with a most acceptable young man, so I doubt she is in any danger, sir.” The widow moved so she was between Harwood and the dance floor, quite as if she had been asked to dance and was positioning herself to be led out.

“I have taught my daughter not to dance with young men to whom she has not been properly introduced—”

“I am sure she has been introduced to Lord Threlbourne, for she was often seen in his company last season.”

“—and thus I must set her an example. Whatever would she say if I could not introduce my dance partner to her?” Harwood made as if to bow to her in dismissal, but she clapped her hands as if delighted by his cleverness.

“There, you have taken the trick. I yield. I am Lydia Smithfield, but you knew me as Lydia Green. Come, we must hurry and take our places.”

Harwood even more strongly wished to give in to his urge to strangle this encroaching woman, for her name was indelibly engraved on his memory as one of the women who had tormented his young duchess. She had reduced Eleanor to tears on her first evening in the
ton
by snide comments she made when the ladies withdrew to leave the men to their port after dinner. It had been Deborah who had rescued her; now Harwood looked around, hoping against hope that his wife’s friend might rescue him.

What he saw caused him to abandon Mrs. Smithfield without a qualm, for it turned out to be Dee Cornwall who needed rescuing.

***

Lord Morton had been pleased to observe Lydia Smithfield drawing Harwood off. He quickly moved to Deborah’s side when the swarm of young people began to dance. She saw him coming and recognized him all too well. Frantically, she turned back to Harwood, only to find him deep in an intimate conversation with a ravishing redhead.

“Lady Cornwall, how very pleasant to see you come to town at last.”

Reluctantly, unable to avoid him, Deborah turned to greet her husband’s good friend. “Lord Morton.” She sketched a curtsy, finding that no social banality sprang to her lips.

“Ah, but let us be less formal, for after all, we are old friends, Deborah. You must call me Dolphus. Will you honor me with this dance?”

Deborah froze. “No, indeed, sir, I do not dance. My daughter . . .”

“Ah, yes, I have seen her. Lovely! Lovely! She quite puts me in mind of you at her age, but you, my dear, are even lovelier.”

“Too kind,” Deborah murmured.

“Not at all. Every word the truth. Have always admired you, one of many, as your husband well knew, else why did he keep you so shut up at Woodcrest? But now you are here, and we shall enjoy getting to know one another all the better for our coming together having been delayed so long.”

“I beg leave to tell you, sir . . .”

“Now this nonsense about not dancing. You should put that aside. Your daughter is safe with young Ventner.” Dolphus reached out to take Deborah’s arm. She was the type who required physical persuasion, indeed, desired it, Seymour had told him.

Instinctively, Deborah drew back, but Morton tightened his hold on her arm, preventing her retreat. “Now, my dear, I will indulge your taste for rough treatment all you want in private, but you shan’t want to make a public spectacle of yourself, surely.”

Deborah blanched. What tales had her odious husband told on her? “I do not want to dance with you. Take your hand off me!”

“You do that so very well.” A wolfish grin spread over Morton’s fleshy face. “I can scarcely control my anticipation. Come, now.” He began pulling her onto the dance floor, only to come abruptly against an obstacle.

Harwood had turned toward Deborah, hoping for rescue, at the very moment that Morton had first grabbed Deborah’s arm. The look of horror on her face propelled him into action. Instantly, he disengaged himself from Lydia and in two strides was standing just behind the baron, preventing his further progress toward the dance floor.

Morton’s indignation quickly turned to unease upon finding himself confronted by the duke’s cold stare. “Oh, it’s you, Harwood. You’re in our way, old man. Taking Lady Cornwall for a spin about the floor.”

Harwood looked inquiringly at Deborah, who shook her head vehemently. “I told him I was not dancing.”

“Been from town quite awhile, Dolphus, but I don’t think manners have changed so much that it is acceptable for gentlemen to drag ladies onto the floor against their will.”

Morton took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “Not that at all; Deborah just seemed to feel she must watch her daughter dance and miss all the fun herself. Not necessary, not necessary at all.”

“No, of course it isn’t, unless she says so. But she does say so. Said so to me, as well as to you. Queer, these rules of society, but there it is: A gentleman must honor a lady’s wishes in these matters.”

Morton wished himself out of there. Harwood was too tall, too stern-looking. Memories of his legendary prowess with a pistol and small sword suddenly superseded Dolphus’s interest in Seymour’s beauteous widow. “Well, of course, if she’s already refused you. Should have said so, my dear. Couldn’t dance with me afterward, could you? You’ll need to relearn these little rules, else you’ll commit some social gaffe. Be glad to assist you. I’ll call on you tomorrow. My sons will be eager to meet your lovely Jennifer.”

He looked hopefully at Deborah, expecting some encouragement, but the widow Cornwall remained utterly silent, so he made a hasty bow and a judicious retreat, offering his arm to Lydia Smithfield, who was standing at the duke’s elbow.

As for Lydia, she accepted it gratefully. Harwood’s response had not been encouraging, and though Lord Morton was in no way as appealing as the Duke of Harwood, he, too, was a widower and had a title, didn’t he?

The duke took one look at Deborah’s pallor and steered her quickly to the chairs set up for the chaperones.

“Wait here; I will bring you something to drink,” he commanded.

Deborah nodded, hiding her trembling hands in the folds of her gown. She pretended to watch her daughter dance, but her mind was too jumbled with unpleasant thoughts to concentrate on anything.

By the time Harwood returned, she had recovered herself somewhat and was beginning to be embarrassed by her loss of self-control. The duke distracted her and put her at ease by a running commentary on the dancers as they whirled by. She listened, smiling, until he pointed out a young woman she knew.

“See the short, heavy creature at the head of that set,” he asked, indicating with a nod which group he had in mind.

“Miss Gracemont.”

“Yes, that’s the one. Would you believe her mother hinted that her child would make me a fine duchess.”

Though Mrs. Gracemont had snubbed her and Jennifer, Deborah felt pity for the unattractive young woman whom the duke was mocking.

“She may very well be a lovely person, but I collect you require a diamond of the first water,” Deborah responded in a repressive tone.

Harwood shook his head. Surprise at Lady Cornwall’s implied criticism lifted his brows. “That was not my meaning. Her mother should have better sense than to look for her daughter’s husband among the greybeards.”

Deborah surveyed his beardless chin and shining black hair, so lightly tinged with grey. “One would not think to put you in
that
category, sir.”

“I assure you the young girls do! And their mothers had best look for young men to keep up with them, instead of greedily seeking the highest title they can obtain for their children.”

Again Deborah felt the prickles of rebellion. How dare he condemn women out of hand? What did
he
know of the fears and anxieties that drove women?

“A mother seeking a kind husband for her daughter may well be painfully aware that a man in the first flush of youthful strength and vigor may not be the best choice.” So saying, she rose. “I see the dance has ended, and Jenny is looking for me.”

The duke followed her, looking thoughtful. He certainly hadn’t changed his mind about the advisability of May-December marriages, but the viscountess’s strictures made him think he should perhaps take a more, charitable view of the mothers’ motives in arranging them.

In response to an almost invisible signal from his daughter, Harwood suggested that Sarah sit out the next dance rather than accept Arnold Lanscombe’s invitation to join him on the floor. “I think you are looking a bit flushed, my dear,” he suggested.

“I am rather winded, Father,” Sarah sighed, turning toward the chairs. “Do ask Penelope to dance, Arnold. She is without a partner now, and that is not at all the thing at her own ball.”

Arnold’s smirk as he bowed his acceptance suggested that the dandy was well aware of Sarah’s reluctance to spend any time with him. She knew that in pushing him away she only delayed the hour of reckoning, for Arnold was an avid gossip who would keep on until he had the truth of her presence in London without her “farmer-fiancé,” as he had designated Gregory at her coming-out ball last season. She could almost hear the limerick he would compose, ridiculing her. Doubtless it would sweep the
ton,
giving vast amusement to all.

Still, she would put Arnold off as long as possible, she vowed. Avoiding the question in her father’s eyes, Sarah turned to Lady Cornwall. “Does Jennifer ride?” she asked.

“She does indeed. It is one of her chief pleasures, and we have brought mounts with us for that very purpose.”

“Will she ride with me tomorrow afternoon, then?”

Deborah queried the duke with her eyes. He nodded his assent, but added, “I cannot accompany you tomorrow, Sarah. You will have to make do with one of the grooms.”

“Perhaps I could accompany you?” Deborah was pleased to offer her chaperonage. Like Harwood, she was aware that Sarah was scheduling a ride when she might have been expected to remain at home to receive calls from those who had danced with her at the ball. And like Sarah, Lady Cornwall found very appealing the idea of being “not at home” the next day to callers such as Lord Morton.

“I should like it above all things,” Sarah declared.

“With your permission, Lady Cornwall, I will still send a groom. I do not like to think of the three of you riding in London unaccompanied.”

“Thank you, Harwood. That would be most welcome.”

To forestall another approach by Arnold Lanscombe, Sarah began a campaign to convince her father to leave the ball early. Sensing that he had pushed her far enough for this first outing, Harwood agreed; and was not surprised to learn that Deborah was also ready to leave. They went down the steps to their carriages together, again eliciting several stares and pointed, envious comments from some observers. None were more chagrined than Henry Fortesque, who had failed to gain an introduction to either heiress.