Chapter Six
“The proprietor begs that no dogs may be suffered in the ballroom.”
(Helston Assembly Rooms.)
A not insubstantial knee brushed Tamsyn’s once more within the close confines of the carriage, and it became clear that whatever his fribble status, Lord Winterbourne wore no padding.
She wafted a fan against flushed cheeks but despite the sun’s demise, only warm air pelted her skin, and even her thinnest silk gown weighed like a velvet cloak upon her frame.
Great Aunt Sarah and Lowdy discussed a Royal Cornwall Gazette report on the merits of the waltz – scandalous or progress? Agreeable or wicked? The lone consensus was when it would be introduced to the Helston Assembly ball.
Never.
Tamsyn remained silent, twisting fingers in her grey silk skirts, too uneasy to contribute.
A ballroom had been added to The Angel some years past, and every month an assembly was held for all the local gentry. Squires, landowners and merchants mingled, business was conducted across the card table and flirtations enacted on the dance floor.
Doubtless, a marquess used to the crème de la crème of London society would sneer at their little gathering in Helston, smirk at their provincial conversation.
With an unnerving clatter, the carriage lurched and Lord Winterbourne’s knee grazed anew.
Whatever had come over her during their discourse? She’d acted brazen and rather…ill-mannered. Although she no longer wished to hide fearful in the shadows, she still strove to live a life unnoticed, gentle and tranquil, tending to the estates and blending in with the grey silk paper hangings.
So why did this marquess elicit such temper?
They’d not lit lanterns inside the coach to combat the descent of dusk, but she could sense his onyx gaze upon her as he rattled on to Father with ease about London society…and no mention whatsoever of china clay pits, she noted.
The collywobbles settled deep within and refused to leave.
“By gambers, these roads,” yelled the coachman from his perch, as the carriage pitched, throwing bodies around as though forking hay. The marquess’s leg nudged her skirts again, briefly parting her knees, and she hastily clamped them together as a tingle spread through her treacherous limbs.
Had he done that on purpose? Was he pressed back full into his seat as was gentlemanly?
“Will you be dancing, Miss Penrose?” His smooth voice rose from the shadows.
She opened her mouth, but nought emerged. She swallowed, tried afresh, but her damn affliction seized, impeding all words. “I…”
Lowdy’s soft hand enclosed her own. A reminder. And she inhaled slowly.
To give the devil his due, the marquess did not press for an answer but waited patiently.
“I dance poorly,” she finally whispered. And she’d be damned if she would twirl with this doyen of perfectness.
“Upon my word, Miss Penrose, I do not believe it,” drawled Lord Winterbourne. “One blessed with such graceful horsemanship could only dance as an angel.”
Toadying buck fitch.
The carriage swerved again but this time Tamsyn shifted her foot and lowered her heel firmly onto the tips of Lord Winterbourne’s evening slippers.
A pained grunt and she grinned.
“And I do not believe,” she rasped, her voice stronger with amusement, “that someone with so little control of their limbs could contemplate a dance at all.”
∞∞∞
“I expect he’s partnering Mrs Mankey, the widow with the loose–”
“Actually, he’s dancing the cotillion with Miss Lambrick.”
Tamsyn spun to survey the ballroom floor, and indeed Lord Winterbourne had his hand lightly laced with the pretty girl’s as they skipped in a circle with their fellow dancers. The girl was smiling shyly and Miss Lambrick never smiled, what with having to care for her curmudgeon of an aunt. This evening, however, she’d unfurled as though a daisy to the sun.
“If you’d not been hiding,” Lowdy continued, “you would have seen him dance with all the wallflowers, save you and me.”
“Even Miss Hocking?”
Surely not. The indomitable Mrs Hocking guarded her daughter’s virtue closer than a Cornishman did his fish.
“Hmm. The marquess danced with her mother first. I have a feeling Lord Winterbourne can count a lot further than ten.” She peered closely. “But Tamsyn, you seem quite…prejudiced against him. Has he upset you in some way?”
Scowling, Tamsyn raised her gaze from Lord Winterbourne’s perfect coat-tails, only to be met with a sly wink.
He upset her in every which way.
Well, what would one expect of a London rogue? Dancing with one woman whilst flirting with another. He no doubt passed love notes and initiated trysts, all whilst straightening his lavish pale-blue waistcoat – similar in colour to a robin’s egg.
She shook her head and contemplated the assembly, vowing to ignore him, unlike everyone else who could not take their eyes from the marquess – the most exotic creature to grace their ballroom since a roe deer had wandered in eight months past.
If one could afford the subscription of a guinea a Season and be able to dress with a modicum of modesty, then anyone was welcome at the assembly. Girls barely out the schoolroom practised their wiles upon squires’ sons, and widows did the same with the squires.
Customarily, Great-Aunt Sarah Pencally and the Helston matrons would be sat huffing as to why all the decent dressmakers had moved to London, but upon entering the ballroom this evening, she had been besieged for tittle-tattle regarding their noble house guest.
The taciturn lady had merely shaken her turban and tightened her lips before returning to her usual role of casting a beady eye over the young ladies of Helston. So far, she’d saved Miss Hancock from a bottom patting, persuaded Miss Haligay from an imprudent fifth glass of fruit punch and offered Mrs Mankey a shawl.
It was quite the crush, with conversation boisterous and smiles wide. Even the musicians in the minstrel’s gallery played with more vigour as though to impress their elegant guest.
Miss Lambrick shortly joined their huddle, breathless and with green eyes sparkling.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” asked Lowdy.
“Oh yes,” she gushed. “I know he is not of my league, but he has a way with himself, makes you feel special, and no one ever does that with me.”
A coquettish giggle reached their ears and they swivelled as one to view a black-clad Mrs Crowfield laughing up at the very rogue they talked of. And Mrs Crowfield hadn’t laughed since Mr Crowfield had shuffled off his mortal coil five years past.
Twisting back, Tamsyn huffed. “I expect she’s laughing at his waistcoat.”
Her companion gazed quizzically and Miss Lambrick frowned.
But Tamsyn had been so sure he would belittle their provincial gathering, when in fact he gave it spirit and life. She couldn’t bear his utter ease with people, his devil-may-care manner, and she knew she was a horrible person to criticise him, but…
In truth, she was so very envious of the Marquess of Winterbourne.
“He’s a fribble,” that envious mouth continued without thought, “and I wouldn’t dance with him for a Cornish fairing.”
Her friends stared. Silent. Eyes shifting to their silk slippers.
“Miss Treherne, may I request this quadrille?” A scent of citrus cologne accompanied the words, fresh and sharp.
Drat.
“Thank you, Lord Winterbourne. It would be a pleasure.” And off Lowdy skipped.
“Ohhh,” shrieked Miss Lambrick. “I think he heard you.”
Tamsyn closed her eyes. She was not of a malevolent nature; she prepared poultices for Mrs Mildern’s bad knee, provided a home to stray cats and ensured surplus food passed to Benjamin Roskilly, his nine siblings and his Grandfather Thomas.
So why did Lord Winterbourne cause her mouth to spew such words?
You know why, a voice spoke deep within. You think him perfect with his roguish winks, unblemished skin and seductive eyes.
Everything you are not.
“It’s like that book I read,” chimed in Miss Lambrick. “Except topsy-turvy.”
“Pardon?” Tamsyn lifted her lashes.
“Well, the heroine overheard a gentleman say she was not handsome enough to tempt him to dance.” Miss Lambrick eyed the agile marquess. “And it was at an assembly ball just like this one.”
“What happened?”
“Hmm? Oh, they got married and she became mistress of half Derbyshire.”
Heaven forbid.
And in any case, the Marquess of Winterbourne’s estate was Buckinghamshire.
All of it.
A fribble?
Surely Miss Penrose had meant fashionable?
Jack caught his partner’s white-gloved hand and whirled her with a swish.
Earlier, he had hoped to entice Miss Penrose with a Scotch reel – one of his best – as she was no doubt miffed he hadn’t asked her to dance thus far, but she’d concealed herself behind a formidable coven of full-bosomed matrons in the supper room and this rogue had learned from experience to choose his battles wisely.
Instead, he’d approached the Master of Ceremonies for introductions to a few Helston ladies who’d been only too pleased to stand with him.
He’d mused in the carriage that the ball would be a sedate affair, full of shy country misses and ruddy squires feeding their hounds beneath the table, but hearty laughter and witty chat ran riot below the elegant chandelier whilst young girls giggled over glasses of ratafia in the corner and no one gave a herring if dance steps were mangled.
The ball was unruly and without affectation, and never had his one-off entry fee of five shillings for “unsubscribed foreigners” been so well spent – despite the confiscation of his sapphire-blue handkerchief at the door.
“Has Mr Miggens been with you long, my lord?” asked Miss Treherne rather breathlessly as they skipped a turn.
Whoever asked after a valet when dancing with a marquess?
Intriguing.
“For a year or so. Where did you meet him, Miss Treherne?” The lady wore a frock of Egyptian-brown, her graceful arm movements and sophisticated hairstyle at odds with her feet.
“The Earl of Fowlmere, his former employer, is my distant cousin…thrice removed…by marriage.”
Gads, the clutch-fisted earl he’d rescued Miggens from. Poor woman. “A delightful fellow, incredibly…prudent.”
Miss Treherne glanced up sharply but he flashed an innocent smile.
They trampled the room, swapping partners and colliding with foxed matriarchs until, during the pastourelle segment, he ended up holding hands with a Mr Trenwarren from Truro, who he had to say danced quite well.
Finally depositing Miss Treherne at the punch table, he immediately sought out Miss Penrose, chatting intently with a medium-sized fellow who’d ferrety eyes, a ginger pate and ruby face.
But no matter.
“Miss Penrose? Might I request this dance?” He proffered an arm, eyes hooded, a long-refined seductive look that women found irresistible.
“No, thank you, my lord. I’m somewhat fatigued.”
No?
He reeled in his empty arm.
No one had rejected him since the Duchess of Ashton’s ball.
May the 22nd, 1812.
A Friday.
And lest we forget, he simply hadn’t noticed the lady’s bandaged ankle.
“Are you indeed,” he murmured, watching as she fidgeted with her grey fan. The ladies of London would be conveying coded messages by their actions, but there was nothing to be deciphered from a fingernail stabbing at the lace. “Then I shall patiently wait until you have rested, Miss Penrose. I am forever at your gentle disposal.”
The lace tore.
Grief, he’d never met a woman so difficult to charm, and that included old Mrs Dunstable who’d been deaf to his compliments…and blind to his lavish bow. He swivelled to the ginger-haired gent swaying by her side. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
“Pilkinghorne’s the name. Professor Pilkinghorne. Did you know you’re a day early?” The man imparted a robust handshake, red jowls quivering.
Another bothersome house guest. This fellow appeared amiable enough although judging by his florid complexion, Sir Jago’s fine collection of French brandy had been more tempting than the fusty old library texts.
“Ah, you’re here researching Cornish legends, I’m told, and yes, I have been made aware of my premature arrival. I’m Winterbourne. How long are you staying for, Professor?”
“Until we’ve read all two hundred and sixty-eight books.”
“How…academic.” No wonder the fellow overindulged.
“Do you know, I’ve noticed an excellent example of medieval tapestry located beneath the punch bowl, so if you will excuse me, my lord, Miss Penrose.”
By the look of the professor’s gait as he crossed the room, the chap must have been quaffing since early afternoon as Sir Jago had suggested.
Jack rocked on his heels and scrutinised the dancers, uncertain of what to say. And he was never uncertain of what to say. He could usually jabber on for hours about nothing in particular.
“Professor Pilkinghorne seems…”
“Foxed,” Miss Penrose supplied. “He often is. I think he drinks to forget although I’m not sure what.”
Jack watched those shell-pink lips as she spoke, and realised he’d quite like to feel them beneath his. Why he wasn’t sure, as she seemed to hold a positive dislike for him.
Was his roguish nature finally so jaded that an innocent appealed? The thrill of the chase?
Lud, was he becoming like Father? Nausea loomed.
“And how do you spend your time, Miss Penrose? Do you enjoy reading? Walking?”
“Why are you here?” She turned to him and he noted a troubled cloud in those sky-blue eyes. He’d always considered himself adept at discerning concealed emotions, but he realised he’d misjudged hers. It wasn’t dislike but…unease.
“I am here to discuss various matters with your father.”
“Is that al–”
Fate skipped to his side in the guise of a Mrs Tripconey and conversation soothed to the weather as was usual. He didn’t wish to lie outright; in fact, he always sought to avoid it.
Lies snared and twisted until the truth became a matter of opinion.
The merry widow departed, having not very discreetly pressed her card into his fob pocket, and he made sure the subject of his business in Cornwall did not arise again.
“Cornish surnames are most unusual, are they not?” he observed.
She stared directly into his eyes.
Blowsy end-of-summer roses adorned the crown of Miss Penrose’s taut chignon. He could tell the chocolate mass strained to be free as strands wisped her cheeks, that sweet almond scent blossoming. She yielded an aura of silky abandon despite the austere and obscuring grey gown.
Seductive yet innocent.
“Not at all,” she murmured, lashes lowering. “Now if you will excuse me, I need to discuss stud matters with Sir Abel Trebilcock.”
Had she…
No, surely not.