Chapter Fourteen
Upper York Street, London,
March 30, 1815
Sophie and John arrived at Lord Harpenden’s home off Upper York Street at ten o’clock at night. They were escorted to a ballroom filled with people dancing and talking and flirting. An orchestra sat at one end of the room, playing one of the more sedate country dances. Servants threaded their way among the guests carrying trays or messages, discreetly watching for mishaps to whisk away, and seeing that everything was in order. The air was heavy, and every so often someone who ought to have bathed more assiduously passed by.
She and John found and greeted Lord and Lady Harpenden, and then she stayed to speak with some of the ladies she knew from Vedaelin and Mr. Tallboys while John wandered off with acquaintances of his own. Sophie found she was quite enjoying herself. The music, the hum of conversation, the lovely men and women dancing or strolling were thrilling. She saw Frederick Drake, handsome and waiting on Miss George as if he believed she was the only young lady in the world. The poor girl was infatuated.
John came back once to see how she was doing on her own. “I’ll walk with you to the punch bowl,” he said.
“Why haven’t you danced, John?” Sophie asked. “I’ve been waiting for you to.”
He waved a hand. “There’s no one here I care to dance with, that’s all.”
“That’s not good of you. There are young ladies here in want of a partner.”
“Vedaelin is not here yet,” he said.
“John.” She tapped his arm. “You must dance.”
“Perhaps later,” he said. He stopped when they met Lord Harpenden. The older man bowed to them and they exchanged greetings. He fell in with them, walking on Sophie’s other side.
“I’ve just been asking John why he’s not dancing,” she said to Harpenden. John tensed, and his smile vanished, a reaction Sophie attributed to her remark. A moment later, though, she thought differently. Miss Fidelia Llewellyn had arrived with her mother. The stir among the young men as she came in was perfectly ridiculous. At that precise moment, Sophie had the good fortune—or was it misfortune?—to be standing with an unobstructed view of Miss Llewellyn and her mother. Fidelia scanned the room and did not stop searching until her attention fell on John. It was plain, painfully plain, now that she knew the truth, that she’d sought him out. John nodded. Very slightly, but an acknowledgment nevertheless. The girl’s smile in return was breathtaking.
“John,” Sophie murmured. “Go to her. Say good evening. Ask her to dance.”
Her brother gave her a grateful look. “Sophie, Lord Harpenden. Will you excuse me?”
Sophie touched his arm. “I’ll be perfectly all right.”
Lord Harpenden held out an arm when John left. “She’s a lovely girl,” he said. “Now, it’s not just your brother who should be dancing. Will you do me the honor, Mrs. Evans?”
She was flattered that he thought to ask. “Dancing is for young ladies, my lord.”
“You’re hardly decrepit,” he said with a laugh.
“Do you know, Lord Harpenden, I should like very much to sit and watch the dancing.”
“The next set then?”
“Now, really, my lord, how can I watch the dancers if I am among them myself?”
“May I engage you for at least one dance?”
He only asked out of politeness, and she saw no reason to inflict that burden on him. “There’s a chair just there.” Yes, that was a flicker of relief in his eyes. She changed their course and released his arm. “Thank you very much, my lord.”
“The pleasure was mine, Mrs. Evans. You are even more of a delight than your brother.” Lord Harpenden bowed. “Perhaps later in the evening I might persuade you to dance?”
“Perhaps, my lord.”
When Lord Harpenden left, Sophie sat and found she had a tolerable view of the dancing. She hoped for a sight of John and Miss Llewellyn. However, Miss Llewellyn remained surrounded by men. John was not yet among them. The young woman continually scanned the room. Where on earth had her dratted brother got to? He ought to be at Miss Llewellyn’s side by now.
A woman sitting to Sophie’s left craned her neck in the direction of the main entrance. Sophie had ended up in a section of the ballroom populated primarily by mothers, aunts, and other chaperones of the young ladies who were dancing. She fit in quite well, she thought. She settled on her chair and tapped her toe in time with the music. Everyone around her was smiling or laughing.
“I can’t see,” the woman next to her said. “My, but this is a crush! Tell me, Imogen, is that him?”
“Someone’s just walked in front of him,” Imogen answered. The two women spoke as if they were longtime friends. With affection. Sophie tipped her head to one side and listened unabashedly. Imogen’s hair was graying, but she remained a handsome woman, dressed smartly in a striped silk moire. Her companion, too, was fashionably dressed, but a deal stouter than Imogen.
The stout woman said in a breathy voice, “Who but the duke would cause such a stir?”
Who, indeed? Sophie asked herself. She admitted to herself that she was unaccustomedly nervous about seeing the duke, if he should happen to come here tonight. He’d sent her flowers as an apology for their missed luncheon at Charlotte Row. Lovely white roses that came with a note asking if she would drive out with him. He called later that afternoon and drove her out to Rotten Row. Sophie had decided she did not mind the difference in their ages. His calm demeanor settled her. She felt safe with him. He’d already lived his wild youth. His feet were solidly on the ground. He was not the sort of man to expect passion.
John had been ready to plan her wedding when she and Vedaelin returned an hour late for no nefarious reason other than the time it took them to work their way out of the traffic. As if a duke would offer for her! Though if she were ever to marry without love, Vedaelin would be a perfect choice. He wanted a companion, she fancied. During their entire drive, his greatest intimacy was to hold her hand overlong. While she had to agree with John that a drive to Rotten Row was a declaration of interest, she rather thought his criteria for love did not include a giddy stomach or breathless longing. They matched each other very well in that respect. He would do well.
The conversation beside her continued. In rather giddy tones, truth be known. “You don’t suppose it could be Lord Banallt, do you, Imogen? I heard he was invited, but I never dreamed he’d dare show up. Not after his affair with that Italian woman.”
“The opera singer.” Yes, I know,” said Imogen. They laughed and put their heads near to whisper between them. Sophie was sure, though not certain, that one of them said the name Mrs. Peters.
Sophie’s heart skipped a beat. But then she clamped down the flood of trepidation. If Banallt was having an affair with Mrs. Peters, that was no concern of hers. He was free to live his life as he saw fit.
“I see him now,” the second woman replied. She shook her head. “Not the duke.”
“Nor Banallt,” said Imogen. “Such a handsome, distinguished man, though. I heard he’s looking for a bride.” Her brother emerged from the crowd the two ladies had been examining.
Imogen tracked John. “His maiden speech in the House was a rousing success. I daresay he might do well for Lucinda.”
“Yes. I think so, too.”
Heavens! If John didn’t find Miss Llewellyn soon, he might just find himself with the redoubtable Lucinda. But her brother seemed to be in no hurry. The orchestra was playing a lively reel at the moment. John ought to be dancing. The music made her want to dance, too, but of course she couldn’t. Gallants like Lord Harpenden notwithstanding, she was too old for such foolishness. And yet, how strange, Sophie thought, to be twenty-six and attending her first dance. She’d eloped with Tommy before her official coming-out, and once she was married, there weren’t any parties. Six and twenty, and she’d never danced except with her brother, who’d been horrified to be made to partner his sister during her dance lessons. In those days, she hadn’t known what it was to be afraid of having nothing.
John had stopped before Miss George. Sophie repressed an urge to give John a good hard kick in the shins. If he was in love with Miss Llewellyn, why on earth was he avoiding her? He bowed and the two exchanged words while Mr. Drake scowled at him, annoyed to think he had competition. How well she knew that sort of man.
The ladies on her left kept up an amusing commentary that sometimes diverted her more than watching the dancers. She did not like Mr. Drake any better than she had when she first saw him. He was very handsome, Sophie thought, but something in the cast of his eyes set her off. When he laughed or smiled, the emotion seemed too focused, and yet not intense enough to be mistaken for deep emotion. Young Mr. Drake was a charlatan. Pretending to adore poor Miss George.
Sophie leaned to the lady on her left: Imogen. “Pray tell, do you know who that young man is?” She nodded in the direction of Mr. Drake. If her earlier opinion of the man was unfair, then these two ladies would surely know enough to set her straight.
“The handsome blond gentleman with Miss George?” her companion asked.
“Yes.”
Imogen looked in Drake’s direction and sniffed. “No one a’tall. His father married up, and that’s a fact.”
“Is that a mark against him?” Sophie asked. “He cannot help his father’s marriage, after all.”
Imogen held up her lorgnette and peered at Sophie through the lenses. “No, but he might have held on to the fortune he married.” She sniffed again. “Like father, like son. The boy’s on the hunt for an heiress.”
“He’s at the right ball for that, my dear,” said her companion. “Heiresses hanging from the chandeliers here.”
Imogen dropped her glasses. “Mark my words, some mother and father will soon be wishing they’d watched their young heiress a little more closely. Now you take the gentleman who’s just left Miss George.”
“Mr. Mercer, you mean?” Sophie said.
Before Sophie could warn them of her relation to him, the other woman sighed. “Such a handsome, accomplished gentleman, he is.”
“He certainly is,” Sophie said, with more than a little pride.
The lorgnette came out again. Imogen had dark brown eyes, and they were suddenly very sharp indeed. “Do you know him, ma’am?”
She smiled. “He is my brother.”
“Indeed?” She extended a gloved hand. “Mrs. Babington,” Imogen said. They briefly touched fingers. “And this is my sister, Miss Wright.”
“Mrs. Babington, Miss Wright,” Sophie replied. “A pleasure to meet you both. I’m Mrs. Evans. Mr. Mercer’s sister.”
Miss Wright gasped and clutched Imogen’s arm. “He’s here! The duke. Oh, we must find a way to introduce Lucinda. We must.”
Sophie turned to look. The Duke of Vedaelin had indeed arrived, and the stir on his entrance was quite something to behold. Women of all ages took notice. And why not? He was a duke without a duchess. John was so tall that she’d not realized until she saw Vedaelin in this crowd that he, too, was taller than the average man.
Imogen and Miss Wright stood up, craning for a look, whether at Vedaelin or for a glimpse of their Lucinda, she didn’t know. Poor John. Set aside at the mere glimpse of a duke.
The set of dances ended and the orchestra stilled its instruments. Conversation rose as the young ladies and gentlemen left the floor, heading for chaperones or perhaps a slow stroll toward the punch bowl. Across the room from where she sat, the crowd by the wide double doors stopped its flow in and out of the ballroom. Sophie leaned forward on her chair, but her view was now blocked by dancers leaving the floor. All around her whispers began. Heads turned toward the door.
“Surely,” Miss Wright said, “this commotion must mean the prince has come.”
“I heard no announcement,” said Imogen.
Sophie stood, too, but she was too short to see anything.
“Perhaps you missed it,” said Miss Wright to her sister. “Did you hear anything, Mrs. Evans?”
“Not at all.” Drat her luck in being so short. She could not see who was causing such a stir. A greater stir than Vedaelin, for heaven’s sake.
Whoever it was, it was possible to follow his or her progress through the room from the reaction of the surrounding people. At last she saw him briefly. And really, it must have been her curiosity or the unfamiliar setting or her expectation that only the Prince of Wales would have sent the room into such a commotion that kept her from recognizing him. He’d stopped to speak to John and Vedaelin, of all people.
The newcomer stood with his back to her with John and Vedaelin facing him attentively. The gentleman was taller than her brother and wonderfully broad shouldered. And slender. Certainly this was not the prince. The man had dark hair. A parade of women walked past him. He acknowledged a few with a bow or nod and ignored the rest. Two broke through, though: Mrs. Llewellyn and Fidelia.
The gentleman with John and Vedaelin turned his head, giving Sophie a brief view of his profile. He was smiling, and later, when she had time to reflect on the moment, she decided his smile was why she didn’t recognize him. As a stranger for those brief moments, he took her breath. Pure and simple, he was the loveliest man she’d ever seen. No wonder all the ladies wanted to catch his eye. A god had just walked into the ballroom, and mere mortal men ceased to exist.
His looks forbade despite his smile. She’d never but once before seen a face so dangerously handsome. The darkness in his expression drew her in. What lay behind that unknowable face? Something about that smile said, Beware, I’ll break your heart. She was dying to know the color of his eyes.
—and then the puzzle was completed. Her world shifted under her feet; her stomach dropped a mile.
Not a stranger at all. Banallt.
The time in which she did not know him lasted hardly a breath, perhaps two, but so many details lived there. Claret coat, tan pantaloons, top boots, white shirt. From here, she could not see his waistcoat to judge whether he had come tonight as a dandy or a Corinthian.
Of course it was him. How could she not have recognized him? Her knees went weak, because she had never until this very moment understood how his beauty spoke to her. She watched him scan the room. Even from the distance separating them, she saw the peculiar silver irises and the pale skin set off by his inky hair. If he turned around, he would see her standing here by herself.
John said something to Mrs. Llewellyn, who nodded to him. Fidelia put a hand on John’s sleeve and replied. John smiled, an unguarded smile that proved once and forever to Sophie that he was in love with Miss Llewellyn. Lord Banallt turned to greet someone else, and now he was facing her direction.
From across the ballroom, his gaze met hers, and she watched his face. Nothing in his expression changed, but they knew each other. His gaze did not move on. Not immediately, at any rate. While Sophie watched, he took his leave of John and the two women at his side. He said something to Fidelia, who gave him a smile and a nod. John caught his arm. Banallt turned back. What the two men said to each other Sophie had no idea except that neither John nor Banallt seemed pleased. Banallt addressed another gentleman. That exchange left Sophie staring at her brother and Vedaelin. Mrs. Llewellyn wrapped an arm around the duke’s.
The orchestra struck the beginning notes of the next set. Banallt turned to Fidelia and held out his hand. The young woman put her hand in his. Sophie lost sight of them both in the crowd surging toward the ballroom floor. A short while later, whispers broke out on her side of the room. Sophie turned her head. On instinct? Happenstance? Or was her glance at the filling ballroom floor merely ill timed? Lord Banallt was among the dancers on the floor, and Fidelia was his partner. Mrs. Babington followed Sophie’s gaze. “A striking couple, don’t you agree, Mrs. Evans?”
“Yes.” It was true. Banallt and Fidelia were lovely together. She was tall enough for him, and every bit as beautiful.
“Do you think he’ll come up to snuff before the season’s ended?”
Sophie looked away. “Up to snuff?”
“The earl, Mrs. Evans. The on dit is he’ll marry the girl. The only question appears to be when.”
“But I—”
“Mrs. Evans.” Reginald Tallboys appeared before her. She’d been so intent on Banallt that Tallboys startled her. He extended a hand. “Will you do me the honor?”
Miss Wright leaned over and whispered, “Go on, Mrs. Evans. He’s too handsome to decline!”
“You can’t say no,” Tallboys said. “Not with everyone watching.”
“Go on!” said Miss Wright.
Tallboys gave her a serious look. “Your brother begged me to tell you that if you won’t dance, neither will he.”
“Unfair, Mr. Tallboys.”
He grinned at her. “Yes, isn’t it?”
Sophie sighed and put her hand in his. At least the country dance that was starting was one she knew she could get through without disaster. Tallboys led her to the dance floor, joining the second line of couples waiting for the music to begin: Banallt and Fidelia, John and Miss George. She and Reginald Tallboys were among the six other couples in the line. There were changes of partner as the women moved down the line of men, each woman dancing a simple pattern with each man in turn. She was, inevitably, partnered with Banallt. Her heart pounded when she placed her hand on his.
“Tallboys?” he said.
“There’s nothing wrong with Mr. Tallboys.”
“Agreed. I’d just thought if you danced with anyone it would be the duke.”
She didn’t answer, because the last thing she wanted was to humiliate herself by missing a step, and she had to concentrate. He smelled good, and his cravat, so far, was perfect. At the end of their pattern, she managed a smile and thought, when she’d moved to the next, that she’d danced quite well. She was relieved to end up back with Mr. Tallboys.
“I was wondering,” he said as the dance ended, “if you would allow me to fetch you a plate when supper is served.”
Before she could answer him, Vedaelin intercepted them. “Mrs. Evans,” he said, bowing. “How lovely you are tonight.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Tallboys,” the duke said. Tallboys nodded at the duke as they walked. “Will you dance, ma’am?” Vedaelin asked.
“I’d be honored,” she said. Banallt was lining up to dance again, too, with Miss George. John, at last, was with Fidelia. This dance had no change of partners, just patterns that sometimes involved a neighboring couple, and she and Vedaelin were safely far from Banallt.
When she was back in her seat at last, Miss Wright tapped her on the shoulder. “Tallboys and the duke?” she said breathlessly. “Mrs. Evans, you are a triumph tonight.”
“They are both friends of my brother, that’s all.”
Miss Wright shook a hand at her. “I saw the way Mr. Tallboys looked at you. Such cow eyes! You’ll have him on his knee to you before long, ma’am.”
“Really, that’s nonsense.” She scanned the room, hoping to see where John and Fidelia had gone. What she saw was Banallt heading toward her. All she could do was wait while her breath vanished from her lungs.
When he reached her, he bowed. All perfectly proper. Heart-stoppingly graceful. Lethally beautiful. His gaze pinned her, and she was actually dizzy. Sophie sat paralyzed for two beats of her heart and then remembered where she was and how she ought to behave. This was not a man who was safe for her. Or for any woman, for that matter. She curtseyed, crushing her fan in one hand. One of the ribs cracked underneath her fingers. “My lord. Good evening.”
Beside her, Imogen and Miss Wright gaped.
He held out a gloved hand. “Come, Sophie,” he said softly. “Will you dance with me?”