Caprice: The Masqueraders Series - Book One (11 page)

“Oh, Gawd!” Emory bawled and turned away and left the room.

She turned innocently to her elder son. “Whatever is wrong with Emory?”

“Growing pains,” Hadrian answered shortly. “Now,
Maman,
if you will leave me, I should like to finish my dressing in privacy.”

Lady Ramsbury pinkened. “ ’Tis been so long since I entered a gentleman’s dressing room. The smell of bootblack and tobacco makes me think to weep. Your dear father always smelled the like.” She turned quickly away, dragging the door closed behind her.

For a full thirty seconds afterward, Hadrian cursed methodically under his breath, using such profanity as might well peel the finish from the wood paneling.

“Curst young pup! Let him try being ‘Honorable’ for a change! I’m beset at every turn!” he muttered when he ran out of more colorful epithets. If Jane turned up freakish and difficult, this being her first ball, he would not be responsible for what happened next.

For the first hour the majority of guests at the Yiewsley Assembly milled about the grand entrance hall beneath three-tiered crystal chandeliers fringed in gold. Chairs were provided only for the elderly and the infirm. Hundreds trod upon thick carpets and consumed champagne as quickly as liveried servants could deliver it on silver trays. Conversation was difficult for the sheer din of voices, yet no one seemed to mind. They were here to see and be seen. Anything else was superfluous. Thus the announcement of each new set of arrivals elicited great interest.

Lady Arbuthnott and Princess Soltana arrived at three quarters past the appointed hour. They appeared late enough to stir anticipation yet within the hour required of good guests.

A few steps into the great ballroom Clarissa and her aunt paused for the footman to announce them. “The Right Honorable Viscountess of Arbuthnott and Princess El Djemal.”

The level of voices dropped abruptly as nearly every head turned in their direction. For most members of the
ton,
this was their first look at the much-discussed and much-speculated-upon Mysterious Veil. For several seconds there was utter silence. And then a swell of pleasant murmurings. There were no shocked sounds, no looks of horror, no whispered amazement behind shielding hands.

The reaction was exactly what Heloise had hoped for. Beside her, Clarissa shimmered like a fallen comet in a tissue-silk gown of pale-gold layers shot through with tiny gold-leaf stars and hammered-silver crescent moons. Tonight her veil had been draped back over her shoulders to reveal short puffed sleeves, and a bodice boasting a depth of four scant inches.

Her gown gained the instant approval of the male assembly, as well as many envious stares from those ladies who had not the wherewithal and/or the courage to wear so revealing a neckline.

Lady Arbuthnott, too, had dressed with care, having chosen a dove-gray gown of simple lines suited to her mature position. The fact that the silver shade set off the Arbuthnott emerald necklace and her own vivid red-gold hair were well-calculated bonuses.

The entire room watched as the Holton ladies crossed the floor to the receiving line where they were greeted by their hosts, and admiration far outweighed reservation in the eyes of the assembly.

Following the official introduction, two of Lady Arbuthnott’s friends moved forward to greet them, and the ladies were immediately enveloped in the crowd. For the next half hour they were mobbed by dozens of strangers seeking an introduction to the Mysterious Veil.

Their faces and names left little impression upon Clarissa, yet they seemed not to notice. For while it was the chief reason for the attention, she had been quick to appreciate the advantages offered by a veil. Behind its cover she could watch everyone without worrying that her expression would reveal her feelings.

When the chamber music of a string quartet was traded for that of an orchestra, the official dancing began. Shortly thereafter, Heloise drifted away from Clarissa’s side, leaving her in the company of several matrons, all but one of whom she had not met before this night.

Following the pattern she had set on previous occasions, Clarissa remained silent as the ladies chatted. Though she appeared to be listening, her attention was far from riveted. In fact, she had only one purpose this night, and that was to confront the Earl of Ramsbury.

She sensed his arrival before she heard the whispered words of satisfaction from a mother with a marriageable daughter. “At last! Ramsbury has arrived.”

The hair on her bare nape lifted as if a chill had sped through the overheated room. She kept her back turned to the entrance, yet she remained aware of his every move for the conversation of the ladies in her circle turned at once to him.

“So handsome a couple, the Blackburnes. One could almost think it a pity they are brother and sister.”

“I see his mother and brother follow a little behind him. ’Tis said the entire family is pleased by his return.”

“I wonder. Current rumor is most peculiar as it touches Lord Ramsbury. A decorated soldier, yet his exploits remain unrevealed.”

“My dear! Have you not heard? They say he had to be
found
and
brought
home. Had set himself up like a pasha.” The lady’s voice dropped into a hush. “With a harem!”

As the ladies twittered and cast nervous glances in the earl’s direction, Clarissa set her jaw in anger. A man as handsome and overtly virile as the earl would always cause talk. Doubtless they wished they could have been part of that imaginary harem. As if to confirm her thoughts, the conversation continued.

“If what you say is true, ’tis no surprise his earldom remains in doubt. Why, just look at how brown he is! One scarcely expects him to be allowed in civilized company. ’Tis amazing the Yiewsleys found the courage to invite him.”

“Oh, he’s quite too eligible to snub. Rumor is insubstantial. I, for one, could welcome him into my family. Anne’s in her second Season, with her sister to follow next year. Providing, of course, he is not as debauched as they say.”

“Who’s to judge such a thing? Would you, Elizabeth?”

Another round of self-conscious laughter greeted this remark.

Clarissa could remain silent no longer and turned to the lady nearest her. “Forgive me, but who is this Lord Ramsbury?”

Several of the ladies exchanged glances before Lady Javis said, “It is for Lady Arbuthnott to determine the suitability of the association, my dear, but I shouldn’t imagine that the connection is crucial. Not at this time.”

“I don’t believe the gel is known to me.” The imperious voice belonged to the lady who had just joined the circle on the opposite side. “You may make the introduction, Dorothy.”

“By all means,” Lady Javis replied with an embarrassed smile. “Allow me to present Lady Arbuthnott’s new charge, Princess Soltana—er—”

“El Djemal,” Clarissa finished for the flustered lady.

“I beg your pardon,” Lady Javis replied. “Princess Soltana, may I present Lady Throckmorton.”

Clarissa noticed first the lady’s long nose in a decided horsey face, then rapidly a wealth of blond curls that could only have been obtained at a wigmaker’s shop. Pinned to this coif was a diamond hair brooch from which an alarming number of orchid ostrich feathers erupted. So this was the old dragon herself!

Dropping her gaze in a display of false modesty, Clarissa murmured, “My lady,” and was glad for the swath of silk that hid her amusement.

“Heloise’s gel?” Lady Throckmorton’s voice had an imperial, slightly nasal tone.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Why do you adopt that entirely objectionable disguise? What do you hide, that’s what I wish to know!”

The gasps around the circle were audible, turning the heads of those who had not until now realized that a “scene” was being enacted behind their backs.

Half a dozen cutting remarks came to mind, for in temperament Clarissa was a Holton, but she bit them back. “I veil only myself,” she said humbly though it nearly choked her.

“Then I suggest you remove it. The affectation makes you the talk of London. Has no one told you that gossip is the very last thing a
lady
should encourage, even if she is a foreigner?”

Clarissa met the woman’s smug expression calmly. “It is the custom of all lands to shield one’s prized possessions for fear that they might provoke in others the sins of envy, avarice, or lust. In many places a lady’s beauty is accounted her greatest treasure.”

The lady’s expression stiffened. “ ’Tis a barbaric custom. We English are much too civilized to require the caution. Thus, I say again, there is no reason for your veil.”

Clarissa suddenly understood that Lady Throckmorton’s attack was not a random thing but a deliberate attempt to humiliate her and thereby destroy her social ambitions. What the woman could not know was that she had no permanent aspirations. This was simply a game. Whatever the outcome, “Princess Soltana” would soon vanish.

“It is said, Lady Throckmorton, that only the most pure of hearts may look upon a lady’s beauty and not be stirred by temptation. If you will vouch for the absence of lust in the heart of every gentleman present, then I will defer to your wishes.”

“Don’t count me in your calculation, Letticia!” came an older man’s voice from the rear of the crowd. “Demmed if I’ll admit the fire’s gone out in me yet!”

This brought rowdy laughter from the male sector and high-strung giggles from the ladies.

Lady Throckmorton’s lips thinned into a mirthless smile. “You have a clever tongue, gel. Clever but, I wonder, sincere?”

“Dear Letticia, I see you’ve met my dear Soltana,” Lady Arbuthnott called as she came hurriedly to her niece’s side. “Here I was taking punch with Lady Clark when I might have had the joy of the presentation myself. Is she not a delight? Simply the most modest, obedient child I’ve ever had.”

Letticia Throckmorton’s eyes flickered over her old adversary. “Heloise, dear, one heard you were back from the country. How amazingly fit you appear. Yet surely this cannot be your child? Was it not generally known that you and Quentin could not—well …”

Seeing the harsh setdown crumble Heloise’s radiant smile, Clarissa clenched her fists, itching to slap the woman on her aunt’s behalf. Almack’s be damned!

When she felt her aunt’s restraining hand on her arm she realized she must have made an unconscious move toward Lady Throckmorton. “I may not have the good fortune to be Lady Arbuthnott’s natural child,” she said coldly, “but the Fates are kind enough to loan her to me now. Unlike some, her generosity of heart has not shriveled with age.”

Lady Throckmorton’s expression might have been carved in stone. “Very prettily said, child. No doubt you will again be presented with the opportunity to converse with me.” Taking French leave, she turned abruptly away. More apologetically, the other ladies followed after her.

“The very old cow!” Clarissa muttered when they were alone.

“Now, now, she did very little damage.” Heloise gave her a soothing pat. “How cleverly you handled her. Letticia can be so very unaccommodating.”

“All that was wanting was sulphur and brimstone,” Clarissa replied. “She’s a witch!”

Heloise’s thoughts ranged on as she watched Lady Throckmorton progress across the room. “I had quite forgotten how much Letticia resented losing Quentin to me. They were to wed, you know.”

Clarissa gaped in amazement. She could not for a moment imagine her uncle being leg-shackled to that termagant in purple.

“Lady Arbuthnott, we meet again.”

Turning in unison, the Holton ladies found Lord Ramsbury had approached them with his sister at his side.

“Lord Ramsbury! And little Jane.” Heloise took the girl’s hands in hers. “My, but you’ve turned out to be a beauty. I had heard you were out. Are you not the envy of every other girl present? But of course you are,” she continued, drawing the girl’s shy blushes. “Lord Ramsbury, your mother is to be commended on her children. Not many wives have the good sense to produce so many appealing faces. Just look about. Some ladies have been positively remiss!”

Her observation provoked laughter from all, and quite naturally Clarissa found herself gazing at Lord Ramsbury. Despite their previous meetings, this was the first time she had actually met him in a conventional manner. She recognized at once the premature aging marks of a seasoned soldier in his strong features. The curving scar scything his brow seemed a part of—not a mar upon—his features. Tall and saturnine, not classically handsome, but how compellingly male. Every other man in the room seemed suddenly diminished.

When his gaze moved briefly lower to assess her gown and then rose to reveal the admiration in his eyes, she felt a sudden thaw take place in her middle. Embarrassed, she looked away. Oh, yes, she could well believe he might command a harem.

He directed his conversation, however, to her aunt. “I wonder, Lady Arbuthnott, if you will remember me as one of the boys who once took up residence in your library whenever Lord Arbuthnott was in town. Never have I heard a more-well-told tale than in his presence. I, for one, miss him.”

A shadow of emotion obscured for a moment Heloise’s smile. “You of all people, my lord, should know better than to bury a man prematurely.” Her smile brightened. “Quentin shall return. And when he does, you shall be among his very first visitors.”

Clarissa was pleased that Lord Ramsbury did not bat an eye in response to her aunt’s mention of her husband’s return. In fact, he smiled at her with an indulgence that bordered on affection. “In that case, I shall eagerly await news of him.”

“Now, Soltana dear,” Heloise said quickly, “you must entertain the earl while I whisk Lady Jane away. I wish to renew my acquaintance with her mother. I saw her a moment ago. Oh, yes, there she is. Come along, Jane. Be kind to the earl, Soltana.”

From the corner of her eye Clarissa saw the earl smirk in response to her aunt’s parting words. Well, she would not have him thinking that there was some plot afoot. “Forgive my aunt’s impetuousness, my lord,” she said, keeping her voice soft-voweled and low. “You need not rearrange your evening’s pleasure to include me.”

Hadrian’s lips twitched. “My pointed favor would certainly discomfort the many sprigs who dangle after you.” Already the boldest of her would-be suitors was edging nearer. By the lift of a single black brow in his direction Hadrian warned the man off but he doubted censorious glances would long stay the tide.

Clarissa was equally put out by the flock of Nonpareils who had fallen under Princess Soltana’s spell. They were responsible for the floral jungle at Holton House. “Your countrymen remind me of a flock of sheep. All follow where one leads.”

“Lemmings.”

Clarissa’s brows lifted in question.

“There’s a rodent in England by the name of lemming,” Hadrian explained. “It takes only one to heave himself over a cliff and his companions will follow by the thousands, though it means their deaths. Your admirers remind me of lemmings.”

“The comparison does not seem to my advantage,” she said softly. “I do not encourage them.”