His Forbidden Debutante (7 page)

With regret, he hadn’t a brother, father or uncle alive with whom to confer concerning his odd view of marriage. No family member remained to offer trustworthy advice and he was too embarrassed to approach Jasper with a subject that should have proven instinctive and ordinary.

With surety, a night of distraction would soothe whatever ailed him. He looked to the seal where he’d pressed his ring into the heated wax, bound by tangible, immovable responsibility. Indeterminate behaviour would rattle one’s brain if left unresolved. Better to ignore the malady until it failed to exist.

He placed the reception acceptance on a silver salver awaiting a servant’s attention. A distorted image of his expression reflected as he performed the task. At the least, certain items remained remarkable and clear. He’d made a commitment to Claire and a gentleman’s word was the very core of civility and integrity. An unexpected beat of melancholy coloured the realisation and he remembered the letters of his past, sentiments and words that lingered within him still. He needed to let go of the past and, most vital, he must cease reading the letters locked in his wardrobe drawer.

At half past eleven and not one minute sooner, for Mr Horne kept a fastidious schedule, Livie approached Lott’s Majestic with the erroneous leather boots, now returned to their original package minus the small burlap pouch. She’d left Dinah sulking in the carriage, unwilling to take the chance someone might spy their entry into the shoe shop and remark during congenial conversation on the occurrence to Wilhelmina, or worse, her sister’s husband, Dashwood. Best to stay as inconspicuous as possible within the morning crowd. With her gaze fixed and making purposeful strides towards the shop door, Livie crossed the street.

Never mind she couldn’t bear for her sister to believe she’d broken her promise. In truth, Livie now worked to right a wrong and return the boots, not the usual objective when she visited the favoured store. She’d left the shoe clips at home, unwilling to part with them just yet. The masquerade this evening provided the perfect opportunity to adorn her slippers and feel a tad regal, even if they served as part of her disguise. She’d send Dinah to return the clips come morning and claim an oversight on her part. She placated her conscience with the plan.

She’d almost reached the store’s entry when a stranger, a man dressed in somewhat ordinary attire, intersected her path and purposely bumped into her person, or at least she assumed so as he made no attempt to step aside as was proper. Worse yet, he stepped on the toe of her right slipper and the cream-coloured nankeen wasn’t styled to be trod upon.

‘Good heavens, you should watch where you’re going.’ Livie shifted the box to one hand and used the other to adjust her spectacles. ‘The streets are crowded enough without your careless misbehaviour.’ Perhaps she’d reacted too severely as the man eyed her long and hard, his eyes squinted in narrow assessment as if he studied her appearance before grunting a low pardon and continuing into the throng of passers-by.

Sparing not another thought to the intrusion, she bustled into Lott’s and straight up to the counter where Mr Horne waited. The interior was otherwise empty. She didn’t dare shift focus to the shelves. She’d made a promise, after all.

‘Miss Montgomery, what a delightful surprise. I didn’t expect you this morning or I might have prepared the newest designs for your perusal.’ In kind to most visits, the shoemaker scurried to the rear wall where a display of popular selections sat on a shelf as if waiting on a throne overlooking the masses. ‘Were you interested in slippers or boots today?’ His smile grew larger with each hopeful word.

‘Actually…’ Livie drew a fortifying breath. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed a pair of butter-yellow kid slippers with ornate heels, but she forced her eyes to Mr Horne’s expectant face. ‘I’ve come to return this package. I left with it yesterday, but there must be some kind of mistake. The selection I purchased isn’t inside.’

‘Indeed.’ The cobbler hurried forward and lifted the lid as he placed it atop the counter. ‘We must remedy this problem at once. Let me check the boxes on the side shelves. Just a moment.’

Livie wandered away from the counter to the large glass window, which offered a wide view of the busy London thoroughfare; its goal was to entice customers, and oh, how it worked its magic and cast its spell upon her.

As she watched from the inside out, determined not to examine the slippers calling her name from the back wall, an elegant carriage with a bright crested emblem on the door stopped across the street at the city’s finest haberdashery. The driver hopped from the seat to extend the steps and open the coach door. Livie had no explanation for her sudden fascination with the procedure as it was ordinary in every way; for some reason, however, she kept her eyes glued to the process despite Mr Horne’s voice continuing behind her. A plump orange tabby cat scampered from the curb and settled under the carriage as soon as the steps hit the cobbles. A gentleman exited a moment later, his shiny boot and walking stick claiming freedom first before his broad stature crowded the view. Livie swallowed, her mouth gone dry and brain defunct.

With odd remembrance, a whisper of one of her cherished letters wafted to mind…

I’m a man who stands on my own two feet in that I haven’t much family to rely on. I imagine someday I may affect a walking stick, not out of necessity, at least not for a physical ailment as one might suspect, but for reason of the unconditional support it would provide, much like a social sword.

She blinked a few times as if to wash away the foggy remnants. How she’d have liked to meet Randolph. He sounded the most dependable and sensible man and, despite telling herself repeatedly to forget the past and focus on the exciting days ahead, a little piece of her heart remained impervious to the advice, leaving the wish unfulfilled, another despairing regret in the lost list that had made up her inner contemplations since the accident occurred. Her stomach turned over with the same forlorn disappointment she experienced whenever she considered Randolph’s letters and the missed opportunity of knowing his person.

Mr Horne cleared his throat and called her name at precisely the same moment the gentleman in the roadway turned towards the window. Her pulse did a little dance as awareness took hold, though she suspected she recognised the heroic breadth of his shoulders more than his handsomely carved features and coffee-coloured hair. His profile was unmistakable. There stood Lord W in plain view. Her eyes widened as if they sought to absorb every aspect of his appearance before he vanished inside the haberdashery, which he did in less than two palpitations of her heart.

‘Miss Mongomery?’

Dear heavens, how rude she must appear. ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Horne.’ She whipped around as if to snap her attention away from the window and into the current circumstance, tucking Lord W’s image away for closer inspection later.

Mr Horne wore a frown of apology, two empty boxes held in his hands. ‘I cannot explain the mistake and regret to tell you the orchid silks you meant to purchase are not here. I suppose we will have to wait and see if they are returned in good faith.’

Who would ever return such stunning shoes? As Livie recalled, the footman who had interrupted her purchase left with his arms piled high. The lady he served was likely as addicted to footwear as she. One glimpse at the orchid slippers and all hope of their return would be lost. Her only expectation of recovery was if the slippers proved the wrong size. Mr Horne hadn’t mentioned the shoe clips. She could only surmise he had no knowledge of them being inside the box. He didn’t seem concerned in the least.

‘Then I won’t dare mention my disappointment.’ Clever the way she was able to continue the conversation though her mind spun in an alternate direction. Perhaps she should venture across the street and into the same shop she’d seen Lord W enter. There was no harm in following the path of curiosity, was there? The memory of their daring waltz stayed with her as if the melody continued. She’d never been so close to a man before. Well, not in the fashion in which he had held her. She found it difficult to assign a label to explain her reaction. Her pulse had leapt, skittered and vibrated during their dance, a series of thoughts and emotions erupting like fireworks in her brain, and his abrupt departure from the hall once he discovered he’d pulled her too close revealed the most significant detail of all.

He’d experienced the same.

‘May I show you something else while you’re here? I have a darling pair of walking boots in byzantine suede and, if they do not suit, you may prefer the high-throated design with black-striped silk and covered heel.’

Huffing a satisfied breath, she dismissed Mr Horne’s suggestion with a waggle of her fingers, her feet already aimed towards the door. ‘Never mind.’ She couldn’t think to explain otherwise and left the shop straightaway, imposing the slightest pause to glance both ways before jetting into the roadway. A little voice reminded her that Dinah waited in the carriage down the street and that she needed to return home to complete her costume for this evening’s masquerade, but the sensible suggestion fell on deaf ears.

Adopting an attitude of fortified determination, she twisted the brass knob and entered the haberdashery with cautious steps and bold ideas. No one was visible, although she could hear the tailors at work in the backroom and a deep, rich voice that instantly identified Lord W as one of the customers being fitted. Lud, she hadn’t thought to note the crest on the carriage door. She needed to do so as she left. For curiosity’s sake, and no other reason. She shifted from one foot to the other. What would Dashwood say if she were discovered in a men’s tailoring parlour? Perhaps the idea wasn’t her smartest. She’d wait one minute, no more. Wilhelmina’s strict reminder that she must protect her reputation above all else rang loud in her ears.

When it became painfully clear Fate would not present Lord W in a serendipitous coincidence and that she would have to summon a clerk by ringing the bell on the counter, Livie backed towards the door, all at once aware of how silly she must appear. Better she left undetected than be caught stuttering at the counter with no real reason to be inside, victim to a damning rumour.

She closed the door with a click and nearly tripped over the same plump, ginger-coloured cat who’d now dropped itself to the floorboards directly outside the haberdashery’s entrance. The creature deemed her worthy of an insolent yowl, although the tabby didn’t move and Livie muttered a complaint, as if the cat would learn a lesson from her sage advice. Shaking her head with exasperation she turned towards her waiting carriage, a little smile twisting her lips. Good heavens, at times she was just as flighty and ridiculous as Whimsy believed her to be. She’d best get home and prepare her costume. It was her first ever masquerade and the possibilities were limitless.

Chapter Six

I’ve never attended a societal event in the city. Have you? I assume they are very crowded and one must dress in one’s finest attire, assert the very best behaviour and remember which spoon to use for the soup. How complicated and utterly fascinating by half. Sometimes I imagine meeting you at a grand gathering. We would share clever conversation and the last dance of the evening. The final waltz is believed to hold unfailing charm for the participants.

Penwick adjusted his ornate mask, the slow roll of carriage wheels an indication his driver inched towards the Dabney estate. Coaches, horses and servants clogged the hawthorn-lined gravel drive, the sides flanked by acreage which stretched farther than he could see from the square window, no matter he’d opened the glass and slanted his head to gain a better vantage point. Instead, brisk night air invaded the interior to remind the season began in earnest. Gone were the extended country parties at quiet pastoral estates where society exercised a more relaxed schedule. Tonight’s affair signalled a frenetic series of events from opera house showings to private family functions, gallery openings and overcrowded ballroom assembles.

The Dabneys represented old money and the elaborate affair they hosted this evening would set a precedent for the ton’s social calendar. He laced his fingers and adjusted his gloves. Strickler had arranged his costume for the masquerade and, with a modification in tolerance, Penwick agreed. He seemed forever cloaked in some type of disguise or another, his true self having fallen into a deep slumber, or worse, become permanently dormant during the time he’d assumed the earldom and rearranged his life. Perhaps Strickler sensed this disquiet. The servant had arranged a lion creation and matching gloves to accompany his gold-threaded waistcoat and jacket. Facing the crowd masked as the king of the jungle suited Penwick.

At last the clink of the handle and clap of wooden steps being extended signalled he’d arrived. He adjusted his gloves, tugging at the hems a final time, and descended from the carriage into a sea of Aesop’s fabled animals. Ahead of him a dove conversed with an ant, alongside the walkway two eagles laughed at a story told by a frog, and near the door a quartet of guests clustered, two owls, a cat and a fox, the backlight of several paper lanterns illuminating the group in a soft, golden glow, as if prominently featured and offset from the others.

The crowd moved with vigorous anticipation towards the huge cherry-wood doors manned on both sides by livery dressed in assigned uniforms, although a plain black mask had been added to complement their navy blue and burgundy attire. At the foot of one of the servants sat a plump ginger cat. It flicked its long tail when each guest passed, as if keeping tally.

Penwick knew Lord Dabney from their association at Boodle’s, though this was the first time he’d visited the estate. The milieu simmered with an ambient hum of conversation and anticipation. The first event of the season produced a flurry, or so Strickler had advised, as the crowded festivities were new, an instant immersion into the vigorous demands of socialising.

With effort, he advanced to the entry and through the foyer, decorated in voluminous drapery of shimmering silver silk, where he again waited, this time a few strides behind the chattering quartet of three ladies and one gentleman he’d noted earlier. Something about the fox sparked a note of familiarity, whether the elegant tilt of her chin or poised steps, as graceful as if she glided across the marble tiles. If he gained a better view, perhaps the illogical perception would make sense. He studied the fox through his mask, all at once content to be hidden by disguise and offered the freedom of curious voyeurism without societal censure.