Lord Quentin had first met Celia Sinclair–Celia Penrose, as she was then–in the Luton Court ballroom. The festivities on that occasion had continued very late, and as the strains of the last waltz faded he had led the young, widowed baroness into one of the darker corners of the colonnade. Or had Celia taken him? That evening was confused in Charles’s mind, although the hours later spent in the lady’s bedroom were an uncomfortably vivid memory.
But it was not the marchioness that he searched for now. A slender chit, with shining auburn hair–
Lord Quentin turned, and there she was.
Helène Phillips stood quietly at the edge of the west colonnade, a lovely young woman elegantly clad in an elegant grey silk gown, her hair arranged in a cascade of ringlets, pearls glistening through the curls. An excited, bouncing child held on to each of her hands. Lord Wentin! Lord Wentin!”
Miss Phillips looked his way and gravely nodded her head; in that breathless moment Charles wanted to believe that she was a lady, wanted to believe that he would spend his life with her.
Offer her marriage
, he heard Lady Pamela’s voice saying. Impossible. Never. But perhaps a waltz... . He moved to join the governess and her charges, making his way with some difficulty through the throngs of people beginning to fill the ballroom.
“Miss Phillips,” said Lord Quentin. He bent over her hand. “You look quite lovely this evening.”
“Thank you, my lord.” The governess sketched a graceful curtsey. She held his eyes, her countenance serene, and Charles felt for a moment that her presence in this ballroom was the most natural thing in the world, that it was he himself who was out of place.
“Isn’t she
beautiful
?” Alice was saying. “I think Miss Phillips is the most beautiful lady of
everybody
.”
“You are entirely correct, Miss Alice,” he told the girl, and had the satisfaction of seeing Miss Phillips blush.
“Charles!” sounded a cry from the ballroom entrance. Was there the briefest flicker of protest in the governess’s eyes? Lord Quentin didn’t need to turn around to know that he was being hailed by Celia Sinclair. He would do well to placate the marchioness. But first–
“May I have the honor of the next waltz,
mademoiselle
?”
That flicker again. Charles held her gaze, the challenge in his words clear, daring her to accept him.
“
Certainement, monseigneur,
” she answered. Lord Quentin bowed and turned around quickly, lest she see evidence of the grin now threatening to spread over his face.
The waltz? Good heavens.
Helène dragged her attention back to Alice and Peter, and they managed to find a protected spot in which to watch as the ballroom filled with people. There were two enormous potted trees nearby; Peter was looking up at them in fascination.
“Oranges?” he said, pointing at the fruit. Helène frowned.
“Miss Phillips, look! There’s Papa!”
Alice wanted to run to her father immediately. Helène allowed this, seeing that the marchioness’s attention was still focused on Lord Quentin. The marquess smiled as he went down on one knee to greet his daughter.
So he
does
love his children, thought Helène. Why do the fathers of the
ton
pretend this stupid indifference?
Peter had followed his sister; Helène hung back, and was surprised when the marquess’s next words were addressed to her.
“Miss Phillips, may I introduce Sir Alexander Northham?” said Lord Sinclair. Her employer was looking his most inscrutably genial. “Sir Alex, our governess, Miss Helène Phillips.”
Helène found herself being presented to a young man of remarkably pleasing appearance. Fair haired, Sir Alexander had twinkling blue eyes, and Helène suspected that his smile had weakened many a young lady’s knees. He was smiling at her now, apparently unconcerned that his host had just introduced him to the lowliest female in the ballroom.
“
Enchanté
,” said Sir Alexander Northham, and Helène stifled the impulse to giggle. She heard the first strains of the orchestra and realized a quadrille was about to begin.
“If I may?” The young man held out his hand. Helène turned in consternation to Lord Sinclair. What was she to say? She couldn’t dance! Alice and Peter–
“Ah. Splendid, splendid,” the marquess replied. “The children can remain here with me.”
“But–”
“Now, Miss Phillips,” admonished Lord Sinclair, his eyebrows raised, “I assure you that I can manage a creditable job of watching over Alice and Peter. I am their father, after all.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Helène. She turned to Sir Alexander, and they glided out onto the floor.
* * * *
“What a magnificent creature,” said Lady Detweiler. Her eyes were on Sir Alex as he and the governess walked through the first steps of the quadrille.
“Too young, I should imagine,” said Lady Pamela. “He would bore you to tears.”
“Boring?–hmm. The boy’s quite wealthy, they say.”
“They,” said Pam, “are correct. His father left India at a highly propitious moment, and old Northham was a pinch-penny. Never wasted a grot.” She watched Helène execute the steps of the
chaîne Anglaise
with polished grace. Clearly the governess had not been spinning tales when she said she could dance.
Glory, but it was warm in the ballroom; even with the dancing just begun, and in the middle of winter. Pam raised her fan, indecisive. Was it too early to take a turn in the garden?
“Put that silly thing down,” said Lady Detweiler. “You’ll catch your death of cold from the draught. D’ you suppose Miss Phillips’s attentions will be turned by the handsome Alex?”
Lady Pamela had asked herself the same question. Sir Alexander was charming and kind–ideal, in a way, for Helène. She had seen her brother making the introductions and marveled at Jonathan’s sudden display of amiable good sense. But why? Why should the marquess suddenly champion Miss Phillips? He’d all but ignored her for weeks.
Perhaps Helène’s fate waited for her apart from Lord Quentin. And I was so sure those two would suit! thought Pam, in unspoken protest. The sparks flying between Charles and the governess were certainly not in her imagination. Besides, Alexander Northham was still a puppy, and Lord Quentin... Lord Quentin was a man.
“I thought perhaps it was true love between them.”
Amanda seemed to know that she was talking about Charles and Helène. She shook her head at Pam. “Sometimes I think you are still fifteen,” said Lady Detweiler.
True love.
Pah, thought Lady Pamela. I must stop this ridiculous obsession with what I know so little about. ’Tis hard enough to recognize, and even if one could find it, how could one ever be persuaded to believe it would remain?
* * * *
“Papa,” Peter asked, “why doesn’t Lady Celia like Miss Phillips?”
“Oh, Peter, be quiet,” said his sister.
The marquess turned mild, questioning eyes on his son. It was not in his nature to dispute the obvious.
“Is it because she’s the prettiest?” said Peter.
“Do hush!” said Alice.
“I think that Miss Phillips may remind your stepmama of what it was like to be much younger,” said Lord Sinclair.
This made no sense to the children, to whom all adults were of much the same age. But they said nothing more about the marchioness.
* * * *
“So, my dear,” Celia was saying, “how is your young bride-to-be this evening?”
“Miss Phillips is not–” Charles stopped himself and shrugged. Lady Sinclair brushed her hand along his arm, laughing, and he realized that although the dancing had barely started she was already quite tipsy. He admired her resilience; even after the blow of seeing Charles with the governess, Celia was evidently in high spirits. But, as he knew well, the marchioness was at her most predatory when imbibing. Lord Quentin could only imagine what she might be up to by midnight.
“Mmm, Charles,” the lady purred. “Do as you please, of course, but save the waltzes for me.” She leaned into him suggestively and Lord Quentin flushed, hoping that Jonathan was not looking their way. Lady Sinclair’s ball dress was finely made–sea-green satin, cap sleeves edged with lace, rows of tucking and lace along the hem–but it pushed the limits of propriety, as usual. At his current angle he could see nearly everything of her breasts that there was to see.
Lord Quentin took a deep breath and turned his gaze elsewhere.
All
of the waltzes, had the woman said?
“I shall be happy to attend you later in the evening,” he told Celia, “but I’ve promised the first waltz to Miss Phillips.”
The marchioness’s eyes glittered. “Oh, very well.” She waved one gloved hand in the air. “Enjoy your time with the little slut. I shouldn’t imagine she can even dance.” She turned on her heel and walked away, leaving Charles frustrated and fuming. Celia calling Miss Phillips a slut? That was rich. But a gentleman was not allowed to throttle a woman in a ballroom, he reminded himself. No matter how much he might wish to do so.
* * * *
Helène was enjoying herself, an astonishing fact considering the circumstances. Sir Alexander had proved to be a marvelous dancer, charming to a fault. During the times when the steps of the quadrille had brought them together he had entertained her with amusing comments about several of the other guests present. Sir Alex seemed to know everyone of the local gentry. He is not the least puffed up with himself, Helène realized, and this pleased her. She remembered Lady Pamela’s words–
Don’t damn us all. ’Tis an individual you would marry.
Marry? Helène blinked, wondering why her mind had decided to wander off in such a treacherous direction. Fortunately, her partner now interrupted her thoughts to inquire tactfully about her own circumstances as a governess.
“I imagine Alice and Peter are a delight,” said Sir Alex. “I’ve always found children quite relaxing.”
“Relaxing!” Helène laughed. “Then I should imagine you have none of your own.”
“I’ve not yet married,” he told her, “but I have more younger cousins than I can count–”
“Ah–cousins. And are they all quiet, studious children, never turning the household upside-down, or falling out of trees?”
“Well... ” He smiled down at her, blue eyes crinkling. “They don’t run riot
all
the time.”
“Then,” said Helène, “you must count yourself lucky.”
Sir Alexander protested. “Alice and Peter are well behaved!”
She looked up at him and laughed again. “Well... not all the time.”
He grinned and–good heavens, was that a wink? But the music was now parting them for a
pastorelle
and Helène’s concentration fixed for a moment on the sequence of steps. She presented her hand to Lord Burgess
pour s’élever
and they advanced. It was so comfortable to talk to Sir Alex, thought Helène. She did not feel as she did with Lord Quentin, as if they were engaged in battle and each word could mean–victory. Or defeat, conquest, utter surrender.
And her partner for the moment
was
handsome. Helène watched Sir Alex as he advanced with Lady Dreybridge. Handsome, charming, and possessed of blue eyes in which one might drown. But her heart did not seem to be skipping any beats at the sight of his smile.
Ha! scoffed the little voice. Sir Alexander Northham can be any number of very nice things. He is simply not Charles Quentin.
Helène gave an inward sigh. Enough, she told herself. And thinking about marriage, of all the nonsense! A pleasant young man is willing to dance with you. Don’t make it into more than that. The marquess all but commanded him to do so, after all. No doubt Sir Alex is willing to stand up with any number of young ladies. And as for Lord Quentin–
As for Lord Quentin, there was always the first waltz.
Or was there? The quadrille was now coming to an end, but it had taken up quite some time, as did many of the country dances. Alice and Peter would soon be sent to bed, and if a waltz was not played soon, it might be too late. Helène was half convinced that the marquess had not been serious when he suggested she remain at the ball. Perhaps, once the children’s bedtime had arrived, Lord Sinclair would gently suggest she accompany them to the nursery.
The children... She looked for them during the last bars of the quadrille, only to find Alice and Peter nowhere in evidence. Concerned that they might be disturbing one of the guests–or worse yet, their stepmother–she asked Sir Alex to return her to the marquess. When Lord Sinclair saw their approach he merely shrugged.
“Lady Pamela has taken Alice and Peter to see the ice sculptures,” Lord Sinclair told Helène, looking distracted. “I believe Peter could not be dissuaded of his opinion that the swans were real. Something Cook said, no doubt. At any rate, ’tis close on their bedtime.”
“Very well, my lord.” So soon? Helène felt disappointment threading through her veins. There would be no waltz with Lord Quentin, no chance to feel his strong arms at her back–
She curtseyed to Sir Alex, and received a smiling, courteous bow in return.
“Ah, here’s Cecil,” the marquess was saying. “I believe, Miss Phillips, that Lord Taplow has requested the dance following your
menuet italien
with Viscount Dreybridge.”
* * * *
Damnation! Would he have to bribe the benighted orchestra to play a waltz? Charles watched Helène as she took the floor once again. What was Jonathan thinking? The marquess had introduced her right and left, until it seemed the Winter Ball at Luton Court was arranged for the sole purpose of Miss Phillips’s debut. He’d barely been able to get near the girl for the best part of an hour.
Carte blanche
was one thing; as his mistress she would appear in society to a limited extent, and Lord Quentin easily admitted that Miss Phillip’s deportment lacked nothing. But here, at Luton–the chit was a governess, for heaven’s sake! She had no business dancing with the likes of the viscount or, even worse, Cecil Taplow. Why, the man was a rake of the worst sort, he couldn’t believe Lord Sinclair had sent a young girl off in his arms–
“A charming couple, don’t you think?” said a voice in his ear. He turned to see Amanda Detweiler standing at his right hand, smiling dryly.