Chapter 9
On a positive note, Madame Fournier has offered to come to Lovell House in the future for all my fittings and millinery purchases.
—from the diary of Lady Caroline Lovell, who suspects she may have been barred from the Fournier dress shop for life.
Fortunately, the rest of Caroline’s day went much more to plan than had her morning shopping. Mr. Sinclair served as an admirable bearer of parcels as he escorted the girls and old Anna back to the Lovell carriage. He even rode alongside the equipage, making conversation that was less stiff than usual with Caroline and her friends.
She began to hope he might yet find a place within Polite Society. Not that Lawrence would ever be high on the guest lists of the most fashionable houses. His prospects were too uncertain for that. And he didn’t have the personal charm that made the bon ton embrace someone on the fringes of their society. Lawrence wasn’t a bit like the remarkable Henry Luttrell, the illegitimate son of an earl. Without his wit, Luttrell would have been an outcast. Instead, his lively verse was celebrated among the ton.
Caroline didn’t think Mr. Sinclair capable of rhyming a single couplet, but as she completed her most recent diary entry, his words describing the French countryside came back to her.
He noticed the small things. The often overlooked things. And by marking them, he made them meaningful.
My horse’s breath ghosting the air, frost sparkling on the field, and each blade of grass doubled by its own sharp-edged shadow.
Not witty, but clearly effective, if the little tingle at the base of her spine was any indication. She could practically feel the cold kiss of that battlefield morning, its icy lips on her nape.
Mr. Sinclair would never hold court in a parlor, regaling the room with stories. His remembrances were too intimate for that.
But surely, she thought as she put away her diary, there must be room in this world for an overlooked, genuinely decent man. Even if he is far too duty bound for his own good.
Later that evening, Frederica and Horatia joined Caro’s family and Mr. Sinclair for supper. Conversation with her brothers was stilted, which was a surprise; she and her friends had practically lived in one another’s pockets since they were children. Then, when she caught Benjamin giving Frederica a sidelong glance, it occurred to her that this was the first meal they’d all shared since her friends had come out. Freddie and Horatia weren’t children any longer. They were debutantes, and her brothers eyed them with the suspicion due such unfamiliar beings.
Then, fortunately, a near calamity ensued.
Frederica was wearing a new gown for the first time that bared more of her shoulders than usual. It fit admirably over her bosom, but the tabs in back hadn’t been tied snugly and there was a bit of a gap beneath her bared nape. Dudley, the ham-handed first footman, accidentally dropped a serving spoon down the back of Freddie’s gown. She squealed and leaped to her feet. Only Mr. Price’s swift intervention stopped the footman from reaching in after it. Then Caroline’s mother came to the rescue, took Freddie behind the chinoiserie screen in the corner, and retrieved the spoon. Everyone had a good laugh about the incident. The ice was broken, and they were all friends again.
Dudley, however, was relegated to the kitchen for the rest of the meal.
But while everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely, Caroline was mildly disappointed to find herself seated between Teddy and Thomas. She loved her brothers, and enjoyed teasing and being teased by them, but she couldn’t help wondering how Mr. Sinclair came to be seated between Frederica and Horatia instead of beside her. When she considered it, she realized she hadn’t been seated next to him once since he’d arrived at Lovell House, even when it was just her immediate family and he.
At the thought, she glanced at her mother sharply. But if Lady Chatham bore responsibility for the seating arrangements, she didn’t betray any guilt over it. The countess was smiling and laughing along with the rest of the company.
After supper, Caroline’s plan to educate Mr. Sinclair in the ways of the ballroom went swimmingly. Teddy came and went, sending one of her other brothers down to the parlor in turn to serve as his surrogate. Ben played as softly as he could, and everyone kept conversation to a minimum because Lawrence needed, first and foremost, to hear her instruction as they executed the dance figures. When neither of their parents climbed to the fourth floor to investigate their offspring’s doings in the ballroom, Caroline could only conclude they had accomplished their caper mastering without Lord or Lady Chatham’s detection.
After several hours, Benjamin ended the final reel with a flourish and the dancers all nearly collapsed, partly in relief that the strenuous dance was finished and partly in amazement that Mr. Sinclair had held his own. Sucking wind, Charles and Thomas both slapped him good-naturedly on the back and made approving masculine noises.
Why must men communicate by punching and grunting at each other?
“Very good, sir,” Caroline said between panting breaths. She wished being a lady didn’t mean she couldn’t mop her brow with a handkerchief as her brothers were doing. She’d simply have to continue to glisten, as her mother called it. “I think it will be safe for you to join in the cotillion, the country dances, and the reel.”
“But you might do well to offer to deliver punch to some of the elderly ladies seated around the room during the quadrille,” Horatia said with a sniff. “My toes still hurt.”
“Again, Miss Englewood, I’m terribly sorry for treading on them,” Lawrence said.
Horatia waved away his apology. Just as she’d waved it away the last six times he’d offered it.
“And remember, it might be easier if you situate yourself and your partner at the bottom of the line,” Frederica suggested. “That way you can refresh your memory by watching the other dancers go through the steps until it’s your turn.”
“But don’t stare at their feet directly,” Horatia warned. “It’s considered rude.”
Frederica drew her lips together in a tight line as she mulled over this problem. “Perhaps if Mr. Sinclair turned his eyes to follow the footwork but didn’t turn his head?”
“People might still follow the direction of his gaze.”
“No one but you will notice, Horatia. We must be practical, Mr. Sinclair.” Caroline called him Mr. Sinclair for the sake of her brothers and her friends. Sometime between the trifles after supper and the end of the country dance, she’d begun thinking of him as simply Lawrence. “You have learned a great deal in a short amount of time. If I were your partner at a ball, I’d rather the steps were fresh in your mind. Should you need to, I see no harm in glancing discreetly at the dancers who are before you and following their steps.”
“An excellent suggestion, Caro,” Frederica said with a little clap, even though the idea had actually been hers.
If Caroline remembered correctly, Freddie herself had often sneaked a peek at the other dancers’ feet when the three of them were just learning.
“But what if someone should catch him ogling my ank—” Horatia stopped herself before ankles spilled from her lips. Mentioning such an intimate body part in mixed company simply wasn’t done.
“I assure you, Miss Englewood, I shall not ogle any part of your person,” Lawrence said, faint amusement in his tone.
“Very well.” Horatia sniffed. “I believe you’ll do then, Mr. Sinclair.”
He gave her a short bow from the neck. “It’s gratifying to hear you say so.”
“Come, Horatia,” Frederica said, stifling a yawn. “It’s getting late.”
“If you think this is late, you’d best be sure you’re caught up on your sleep before Lord Frampton’s ball, Freddie,” Ben said as he secured his violin in its case. “It’s like to run till three in the morning.”
“If it does,” Frederica said, dimpling prettily, “you’re like to find me curled up in a corner somewhere, fast asleep.”
“And wouldn’t you make an appealing little dormouse at that?” Ben chuckled. Then he clicked the violin case shut and tucked it under his arm. “Perhaps I should ask for a dance from you earlier in the evening, then. I prefer my partners to be awake.”
Freddie turned pink to the roots of her hair. Her mouth opened and closed several times without a sound, making her look distressingly like a codfish. Then, clearly ruffled, she turned and scurried down the stairs. Horatia was after her in a trice, her furious whisper echoing up the well and circling the cavernous ballroom without revealing a single intelligible word. Charles and Thomas headed in the same direction, but their normally pitched conversation was about the upcoming cricket season. Far be it from them to trouble about anything as inconsequential to the masculine mind as a ball.
“Freddie is very tenderhearted,” Caroline told Ben. “You shouldn’t tease her so.”
“Who says I was teasing?” Ben said testily. “Thomas and Charles got to dance with her all night. Even Teddy took a turn. My only choice was to claim a dance at the Framptons’, where I won’t be expected to be the invisible musician.”
Caroline gaped at her brother, astonished that he wanted to dance at all, and even more that he wanted to dance with Freddie. Ben used to torment her friend by showing her his collection of insects when they were children. He loved watching her run off squealing over his six-legged beasties. “I’m sorry, Ben. I had no idea you would have liked a chance to dance.”
He’d never shown any inclination toward it before now.
“Well, I would have,” he said sullenly.
“I’ll remember that in the future. Perhaps the next time we arrange for Mr. Sinclair to practice, we won’t have to be so secretive. Now that he can hold his own, it won’t seem so strange to our parents that the lot of us might want to do a bit of dancing. But we’d still need music.” She tapped her temple. “Ah, I know! We might push back the furniture in the music room and I could play the piano.”
Ben rolled his eyes at her. “Trust me, Sister. No one wants that.”
“Brute.” She swatted his shoulder. His expression had been so sullen when he talked about their brothers dancing with Frederica. Perhaps he was serious about wanting to spend some time on the ballroom floor with her. “To my knowledge, you may ask Freddie for any dance but the supper dance at Lord Frampton’s. That one’s spoken for.”
Ben frowned. “By whom?”
“Lord Rowley.”
Lawrence joined him in a frown. But before Caroline could ask why they both seemed disposed to dislike the idea of Rowley dancing with Frederica, Ben said his good nights and disappeared down the stairs.
Lawrence’s rumbling voice stopped her when she started to follow her brother. “A moment, my lady.”
“There’s no need for such formality now that we know each other better, Lawrence. You may call me Caroline,” she corrected gently. He’d done so well with this dance lesson, she was feeling in perfect charity with him. It was only fitting to give him a small reward. “If you wish me to call you familiarly when it is just us, you must use my Christian name as well.”
“Caroline.” There was that sunrise of a smile again. Then it disappeared as quickly as it had come and he was all seriousness. “You ought not to allow your friend to consent to the supper dance with Rowley.”
“Why not?”
“Because he…” He made an odd sound, sort of a cross between a grunt and a snort. “I shouldn’t like to say.”
“Then how shall I convince Freddie to refuse him?”
“I don’t know, but I hope you will try.”
He looked so earnest, it seemed as if he could convince her of anything with nothing more than those dark eyes of his. She forced herself to look away.
“I’ll consider it,” she said. “But you should bear in mind that I’ve known Lord Rowley since we were children. It would take a great deal to change my good opinion of him.”
“A great deal has happened since you were children.”
“Yet if you cannot tell me what it is that concerns you about Rowley, how shall I know how to advise my friend?”
He stepped closer, and Caroline caught a whiff of his distinctly masculine scent, a mix of leather and bergamot and some other exotic spice she couldn’t identify.
He smells like an adventure.
She hadn’t thought about having adventures for the last day or so. It was passing strange that this man should remind her of her dearly held goal. Only somehow, this adventure didn’t seem to involve traveling. It was more about sinking into his dark eyes. Caroline swallowed hard.
What were we talking about? Oh, that’s right. Freddie and Oliver.
If Lawrence had thought his mere proximity would lend weight to his argument, he was right. Being near him made it harder for Caroline to remember they were talking about Freddie. But Lawrence didn’t seem to be aware of her befuddlement.
“Miss Tilbury thinks the sun rises and sets on you,” he said. “She’d attempt to swim the Channel if you advised her to give it a try.”
There was a faint scar at his temple she’d never noticed before. How might that have hap—
Concentrate on Freddie, you goose.
She took a step back from him and felt a bit surer of herself for it. “If Freddie will do whatever I say, I bear even more responsibility for making sure I offer the proper guidance. To do that, I need the particulars.”
Lawrence sighed. “I wish you would simply trust me.”
She was tempted. There was such a straightforward goodness about the man, it was easy to trust Lawrence Sinclair. Perhaps too easy.
“I should go.” She turned to do just that.
“Hold a moment.” He put a hand on her arm, right at the place where her puff sleeve ended and her skin was exposed. The heat from his hand sent little tingles up to her shoulder. “Stay, Caroline. Please.”
“Why?”
“There’s still one dance you haven’t taught me.”
She cocked her head at him. “I agree with Horatia that the quadrille is beyond your grasp at present, but you have a rudimentary knowledge of the cotillion, country dances, and the reel. You’ll do quite well at Lord Frampton’s ball, I’ll warrant.”
“Yet there is one dance you’ve left off the list.”
“Oh, the minuet, you mean. Well, to be perfectly honest, even I have difficulty with the minuet sometimes. In all honesty, that dance belongs to the last generation,” Caroline said. “If a minuet is called at all at Lord and Lady Frampton’s, it will be performed by a single couple as a demonstration.”
“No, that’s not the dance I mean,” Lawrence said, giving her arm a slight squeeze. “I mean the waltz.”