Miss Stamfield was said to be pretty, pleasingly mannered, and well dowered, the perfect debutante, in other words. There was no title in the family, but the connections could not have been higher unless one counted royalty. Every matron with a younger son to see established sent cards for dinners, balls, or at-homes. Every mother of a less-favored miss sent invites, too, hoping some of Miss Stamfields prospective beaux would attend their parties and dance with their wallflower daughters.
It was Lady Coras goddaughter, however, who drew the most interest. She had no title, either, but Abbotts only child was bound to come into a fortune. Word was, she was a beauty, too, if a bit standoffish. Some said she was shy; that was why her father kept her home. Others said she was selective; that was why she was unwed. The conjectures made her all the more attractive to gentlemen who enjoyed the hunt. They urged their mothers, aunts, or married mistresses to invite the female already wagered to be the new star in the social firmament.
Responses to Cories letters came, also, from the schoolmates who were in Town and entertaining. Theyd be delighted to renew friendships, especially if they had brothers.
With such a stack of invitations, the ladies would be busy beyond imagining. Lady Cora was satisfied. Susanna was ecstatic. Corie hoped the new gowns would give her the courage to face the stares and speculations. She knew everyone was asking how deep was her dowry, how high her resolve to find the perfect match.
Besides invitations, flowers arrived, too, with an apology from Daniel Stamfieldwhom shed been avoidingand an invitation to ride with him and Susanna. Or drive in his curricle, whichever she wished. He promised not to be as clumsy with the reins as he was with his manners. The note was sweet, and Corie deemed his script neat for such a savage. She wondered if his new valet had composed and written it. She refused.
Not that she blamed him for all her troubles, just most of them: her unsightly hands, her unmarried state, her possibly ruinous history, her desperation to find a husband now. Shed blame the rainy and foggy weather on him, too, if she could. It was enough to know the dampness made her fingers ache.
She didnt toss the bouquet out the window, as she wished she could Mr. Stamfield. The flowers were too pretty and reminded her of her beloved gardens. Their scent filled her room, hiding the stench of Londons air. Their purchaser was a donkeys derriere, but the flowers were lovely. She kept them in a vase near her bedside. His note went in the fire.
Instead of riding in the park with Susanna and her brother, Corie drove with Lady Cora in the barouche, pausing every few yards to be introduced to this dowager, that hostess, two of Almacks patronesses, and any gentlemen who could scrape up an introduction. Thus, when they finally attended their first ball, Corie knew far more men than Susanna, and had nearly every dance bespoken before the orchestra started, which meant she did not have to suffer through a set with Daniel Stamfield.
Hed been practicing, she knew, after Susanna begged. The minx had even produced a few tears, wailing hed step on her new gown at the very first dance of her very first ball unless he improved considerably.
At last they were ready for the Duchess of Haighs ball. The final preparations took almost the entire day before, but Corie counted the hours worth it. She knew shed never looked better than in the gold silk gown with the gold lace overskirt, her mothers diamonds, and her hair done up in a topknot held with a gold filigree tiara, with curls framing her cheeks. Those seemingly artless curls took hours to arrange, but every minute was worth seeing Mr. Stamfield turn speechless at her appearance when she followed his mother and sister down the wide marble stairs of Royce House.
Garbled speech was nothing new for the great lummox. She couldnt imagine how Lady Cora was going to find a match for him, even if he was dressed to the nines and could execute the quadrille. Corie thanked heaven that was none of her concern, except that his mothers efforts might keep his broken nose and big feet out of Cories affairs.
The man wanted to know all her secrets, to protect his family, hed said. As if hed bothered being the man of his house for the past two or three years when he was hell-raking in London. No, all he wanted was to torment Corie, she was sure, when his deep blue eyes looked into her souland found her wanting.
Tonight, though, his eyes widened, his mouth opened but no words came out, and Dobbson had to tap his shoulder to hand over his hat and gloves. He did not even speak when all three women thanked him for the flowers hed sent.
The butler must have reminded him, Corie thought, uncharitably. And his valet must have consulted with Miss Reynolds and the ladies maids as to styles and colors. And one of the footmen most likely got sent to the flower market to pick the blooms. But she thanked Mr. Stamfield, nonetheless.
Whoever had chosen the flowers did an excellent job. Lady Cora was wearing deep blue lutestring, to match her eyes and her sapphires. Her flowers were white gardenias, which shed pinned to her gown. Susannas nosegay was blue forget-me-nots, which her maid threaded through her upswept black hair with a blue ribbon that matched her eyes and her white gowns trim.
As for Corie, she hadnt expected him to order flowers for her at all, since she was no relative. She saw no reason to carry them, but her maid insisted that every other female would be wearing a floral token, so now her ensemble was complete. Tiny white rosebuds in a gold filigreed holder were pinned to her long gloves.
White for innocence? White for purity? She thanked him with a curtsy, but looked to see if he wore a sarcastic sneer. All she saw was admiration in his eyes. She also saw a true gentleman in a spotless tailcoat, white satin knee breeches, a respectable neckcloth fixed in place with a sapphire stickpin. She had to remind herself that clothes did not make the man . . . nor did pretty flowers. Flowery words might have swayed her a bit, but he ruined his gentlemanly pretense by stuttering, II think we should st-stay home tonight. Uh, raining, dont you know.
What, after all this effort? his mother scoffed. The footmen all have umbrellas. Furthermore, no one would get to go anywhere if they waited for a clear evening in London. Do not be absurd, Daniel.
He was worse than absurd. He was pitiable, wanting no other man to see the golden goddess. Give her a magic wand and wings and shed be a fairy princess. Most likely shed turn him into a toad. She already had him gasping and gaping like a pop-eyed frog too long out of water. He did not want her, but damn, the idea of another man touching those nearly bare shoulders, fondling those wayward curls, stepping on those gold-painted toes peeking from gold sandals, made his blood run cold.
Except he was sweating. Gads, how did they stand it, this stifling heat, the close-packed crowds, the watery punch? He stepped behind a pillar holding a large fern, safe for the moment. Hed survived the receiving line, with some resplendent butler intoning their names as they entered and everyone staring at his companions. He wanted to smash a few noses at the haughty inspections, the counting of shillings, the calculating of odds of a grand alliance. And those were the women. As for the mens looksdash it, hed told his mother that Susannas gown needed another inch or two.
Then came the first dance. He had not stepped on Susannas skirts, knocked over the waiflike debutantes next to them in the set, or forgotten the steps. After that, Clarence claimed Sukeys next dance. He looked like a tailors dummy to Daniel, but he was harmless in the crowd, and better the enemy you knew.
His mother was surrounded by jewel-laden ladies and manicured gentlemen, some of the latter widowers or old bachelors. She was laughing and blushing like a schoolgirl and accepting who knew what offers, but she did not seem to require Daniels presence, thank goodness.
Miss Abbott was already on the floor with another partner. He could not see who it was in this damned crowd, despite his height. He had to step out from his safe lairstraight into the searing line of sight of the hostess. The duchess was looking like thunderbolts, as if hed been caught spicing up the punch. Hell, he hadnt done that since . . . since the last time hed been thrown out of one of the Haigh balls. He was a different man now, with females to protect. He stopped shaking in his shoes, proper, shiny ones at that.
Your Grace. He bowed and almost said that the punch was better last time. Lovely party.
You, sir, are not dancing, Her Grace stated, as if he were not aware he was holding up a pillar. The swaying fern on top did not count as a partner, it seemed. All he could do was agree with the obvious.
No, Your Grace. Daniel half expected the duchess to issue an edict, such as Out or Off with your head. He hastily added, trying not to stammer, I, that is, my mother and I. Were watching out for
For naught. Her Grace towed him to the gilt seats lining the walls, the whole while lecturing him on proper etiquette for a gentleman at a ball. The only reason he was included in the invitation, Her Grace informed him, was that his mother swore he was reformed.
Daniel promised himself a few words with his doting mother. He was too reformed to knock down a duchess, that was all. Hell, his fond parent could have warned him that any bachelor who showed he could move two legs in the correct steps was fair game. Unless tossing him to the wolvesthe women with daughterswas Lady Coras plan all along. Ill go have a word thanking her now, shall I?
No. The duchess held his arm with a grip that would have made a bear wrestler proud. Her Grace led him to a female in spectacles and too many pink ruffles that looked like theyd been collecting dust in this distant corner. Miss Thomlinson had seenor squinted attoo many Seasons for her tittering chaperone to worry about his reputation. The featherheaded woman most likely wished some rake would ravish her charge in the garden, because then hed have to marry the female, frills and all. Daniel felt a trail of sweat running between his shoulder blades. The whole fardling ball was a trap.
At least Miss Thomlinson was not a midget. She wasnt as tall as Miss Abbott, but he didnt feel like Polyphemus next to her. She knew more about steam engines and electricity than he cared to hear, but at least he did not have to make conversation. And she jerked her head to the right or left when he forgot the dance moves, so he didnt look the fool.
He bowed, saw her back to her chaperone, and bowed again before anyone could suggest a cooling walk through the French doors to the lantern-lit gardens. He made his escape to those same blessed doors before his hostess could pair him with another spinster in waiting.
He ducked outside, where a clutch of like-minded men stood on the terrace, claiming they needed the fresh air, but blowing smoke and draining glasses of punch a uniformed waiter passed out from his tray.
One of them wheezed, and Daniel saw Lord Morgan Babcock and his nephew. Jeremy held up a monogrammed flask and offered to make the punch more palatable. Daniel gulped the punchat least it was wet and coldbut turned down the alcohol. He needed to keep his wits about him tonight in order to watch his sister, and watch his own back.
I say, old man, how about an introduction to your family? Jeremy said, slurring his words a bit.
Daniel said no. You are already foxed.
Nonsense, Im just a bit on the go. So are most of the gents here tonight, and half the ladies. You dont think those biddies on the sidelines keep a spot of spirits in their reticules? Why else do so many of them fall asleep in those spindly chairs? By the time the duchess trots out the champagne, even the shyest debutante will be babbling like a brook. How do you think so many engagements are made at these affairs? The little darlings get compromised, thats how.
Daniels escort duty suddenly got harder than guarding the supply lines against French scouts, Spanish spies, and starving peasants. Maybe he should have a drink, a real drink, after all.
Later, he told Babcock, and himself. He took a step back to the doorway, where he could see over most of the heads to the dance floor. If Susanna was dancing, she was safe. If his mother was surrounded by middle-aged Romeos, she was safe. Where the deuce was Miss Abbott? Not that she was his responsibility, precisely. He almost went back to the ballroom when Babcocks words penetrated his addled wits.
Everyone is talking about the Stamfield women, you know. Id get Her Grace to make the introductions, but shell snare me for one of her debutantes.
Daniel doubted that. Not even the duchess was desperate enough to let a womanizer like Babcock dance with any of the susceptible young misses. Even females like Miss Thomlinson deserved better.
So will you make me known to the ladies?
Daniel would not. He grabbed Jeremy by his padded shoulders and spun the smaller man around. If you so much as speak to my baby sister, I will squash you like a bug.
Jeremy brushed his clothing back into place. Here, now, all I want is an introduction to the other gal, the gilded lily. Not even a relative of yours, what? Every other heiress or beauty has all her dances already spoken for, ages ago. Miss Abbott might have a waltz free, since shes so recently come to Town.
A waltz? Daniel vowed hed see Babcock in Hades before he let the dirty dish have that intimate dance with his mothers goddaughter. Everyone knew the waltz was nothing but a standing seduction, set to music.