Encounter with Venus (16 page)

Pratkin recognized a capitulation when he heard one. “She wouldn’t have come here if she didn’t care, now would she?” Without waiting for an answer, he marched firmly round to the back of the chair and wheeled Bernard toward the door. “I’ve your evening clothes all laid out. You can be ready in half an hour.”

An hour later, Bernard’s carriage drew up in front of the Renwood townhouse. His coachman had to perform some tricky maneuvers to get the carriage close to the door, for the street was clogged with traffic. Pratkin helped his master to alight. When his crutches were properly adjusted, Bernard threw his man a glance that said as clearly as words
I
think we’ve made a terrible mistake;
nevertheless, he started toward the crowded doorway. Pratkin followed. “Don’t worry, sir,” the valet whispered in his ear. “We’ll be waiting right here, if you should need us.”

The stairway to the ballroom was a decided squeeze, but since most people are willing to stand aside for a person on crutches, he managed to make his way up without too much difficulty. Just inside the ballroom doorway, Lord and Lady Renwood and Harriet stood receiving their guests. Lady Renwood squealed in surprise at Bernard’s appearance. “Ah, you’ve come after all!” she exclaimed in delight. “That must mean our dear Frobisher returned in time. But where is he?”

“No, he didn’t make it, my lady,” Bernard said. “I decided to brave it on my own.”

Harriet gave him a glowing smile. “Good for you, Bernard,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “I’m so happy you did!”

Her words and her smile warmed him. For the first time that evening, he felt glad he’d come. He wanted to lift her hand to his lips, but the press of incoming guests behind him prevented it. He had to relinquish her hand and get out of the way.

He hobbled over to the sidelines of the dance floor. The dancing had already begun, and the air rang with music and laughing voices. The row of gilded chairs along the walls were sparsely occupied; here and there a group of elderly ladies gossiped together, and a few old gentlemen whose dancing days were long past stood watching the lively scene before them. Bernard looked about carefully, hoping to spy an acquaintance with whom he could chat, but so far he could see not one familiar face. With nothing better to do, he kept his eyes on the doorway, where Harriet still remained welcoming the incoming guests. After a few moments, however, the crowd at the doorway thinned. Bernard watched in frustration as a foppish fellow took Harriet out of the receiving line and led her, smiling, to the dance floor. It was a waltz. Harriet made a charming sight as she whirled about the floor, her mauve silk gown billowing about her. But all Bernard could do was to stand there hanging on his crutches, gawking at her and looking pathetic. In spite of the pleasant beginning, this evening was turning out to be, just as he’d feared, a deuced nightmare.

By the time the waltz ended, and a new line was forming for a country dance, the floor had become so crowded that he could no longer see Harriet in the melee. He did think he caught a glimpse of her mauve gown amid a circle of giggling females, but he wasn’t sure. Since it would be torture, anyway, to watch her swinging about in some other fellow’s arms, he decided to sit down on one of the chairs. He’d just set aside his crutches and made himself comfortable when a pert young lady with a head covered with lively little curls came up to him. “Isn’t this your name on my dance card?” she asked, holding the card out to him.

“I don’t think so, miss,” he said. “I couldn’t have—” But a glance at the card, at the third line where she was pointing, revealed the name Bernard Tretheway in large letters. He looked up at the girl in surprise. “That is my name, I admit, but I don’t know how it got there.” He pointed to the crutches leaning on the wall behind him. “As you may notice, I can’t dance.”

“Oh, I know that,” the girl said cheerfully as she perched on an empty chair beside him. “The little check mark next to your name means that we sit out this dance. My name is Mary Gibbons, by the way.”

“How do you do, Miss Gibbons? Forgive me for not rising to bow. But do tell me, how does one ‘sit out’ a dance?”

She cocked her head at him. “How do you sit out a card game?”

“I’m not familiar with the expression. I suppose it means you don’t play the round.”

“Exactly!”

“Ah!” He nodded to show he understood, but not fully. “But in this case, what do you do instead?”

“Just this. We sit and chat.” She leaned toward him eagerly. “I’m told you are interested in politics, sir. You may not credit it, but so am I. In fact, I am a member of the Ladies Society for Free Schools, and I’m hoping that you gentlemen of the House will stop wrangling over the issue and award funds ...”

Bernard eyed the young lady with some amusement as she proceeded to try to educate him on the matter of charity school funding, an issue on which he’d recently given a full-hour speech. He did not interrupt her to tell her he was well informed on the subject but let her ramble on. She did not run out of words for the entire time of the dance, but when it was over she ceased her rodomontade immediately. “I must go,” she said, jumping up, “but it’s been a pleasure to meet you,”

“And to meet you, too,” Bernard said with a grin.

As he watched her walk away, he wondered how she’d learned his name. Her reason for “sitting out” the dance with him seemed apparent: she wanted to win him to her side of the charity-school funding debate, not knowing that he was already on her side. He sat back in his chair, the smile engendered by the girl’s enthusiasm still lingering on his face.

The smile was doomed to fade, however, for within another few seconds, another female came up to him and showed him her dance card. There was his name, with a check mark beside it. He gawked at her in astonishment. This young lady, a plump, blue-eyed lass with full, dimpled cheeks, blushed with shyness. “I’m Cissy,” she said.

“Are you, indeed?” Bernard studied her with knit brows. “And are you supposed to ‘sit out’ this dance with me?”

“Yes, sir, if it pleases you,” the girl said diffidently.

“It pleases me greatly. Won’t you sit down?”

The girl took a seat and cast him an uneasy glance. “This is a very nice party, don’t you agree?” she asked.

“Yes, very,” he responded politely.

“A great squeeze.”

“Yes.”

There was an awkward pause. Then the girl said, in a tone of nervous desperation, “The music is... er... lovely, is it not?”

Bernard tried hard not to laugh. “And the weather is very fine, too,” he said, straight-faced.

The girl blinked at him. “But it’s so cold!” Then, noting the amusement in his eyes, she gave a little hiccoughing laugh. “Oh, you’re teasing me.”

“Yes,” he said, smiling at her.

She sighed and looked down at her hands that were folded in her lap. “I’m not very good at making conversation. I never know what is the proper thing to say.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t worry about being proper. What would you like to say that might be improper?”

She looked up at him wonderingly. “Do you really think I should try it? Saying something really improper, I mean?”

“Yes, I do,” he assured her. “Really.”

She gulped. “Then, I’d like to ask if ... if...”

“Go on,” he prodded. “Ask.”

“If your legs are ... if they hurt you.”

The question surprised him. “No,” he said frankly. “It was a long time ago that I was injured.”

She looked at him worriedly. “Was that question very improper?”

“No,” he said, after considering the question for a moment. “Actually, I rather like your asking it. Most people pretend that my incapacity doesn’t exist.”

“Then would you like to tell me how it happened?”

“Do you really want to know?”

She nodded eagerly. “It would make this a real conversation, wouldn’t it? Not just shy silliness about the weather.”

He agreed and gave her a brief account of the incident of his fall. She kept prodding for more details, keeping the conversation so interesting to them both that they were disappointed when the music stopped, indicating that the dance had ended. The girl rose reluctantly. “Now I have to dance with Freddie Gladstone,” she murmured, frowning at her dance card. “I never know what to say to him.”

“Just be improper,” Bernard reminded her. “You’ll be fine.”

She laughed, blew him a kiss, and ran off.

He was not surprised when a third young lady appeared before him. He was beginning to understand what machinations were afoot. This lady was tall and slender, a dark-eyed beauty in a peach-colored, shimmery gown that clung shamelessly to her breast and hip bones. “I suppose my name is on your dance card,” he said to her. “With a check mark after it.”

She nodded, slid gracefully onto the chair beside his, and stretched her legs so far out in front of her that her slim ankles were revealed. “Aaah,” she sighed, “how good it feels to sit down.”

“Too much dancing?”

“Quite. My last partner kept treading on my toes. What a bore!”

“I may be a bore as well,” he said, “but at least I won’t tread on your toes.”

She turned in her chair and looked at him speculatively. “We could avoid boredom, you know, by just not forcing ourselves to converse. Would you mind if I just closed my eyes and rested for a bit?”

“Not at all,” he said. “What better way to spend a sit-out?”

The girl closed her eyes and actually nodded off. Bernard had to shake her shoulder when the music stopped. “Your next partner will be looking for you,” he told her when she opened her eyes.

“Sorry,” she said languidly, and she languidly rose and languidly wandered off.

What a bore,
Bernard said to himself as watched her make her undulating way across the dance floor.

He had barely a moment in which to wonder who would next be “sitting out” with him when she appeared before him. She was the prettiest of the lot so far, with coppery curls that fell about her face and a pair of eyes of the lightest blue. “I’m Elaine Whitmore,” she said with a flirtatious smile. “Your name is on my dance card.”

“Yes, I know,” he said. “With a check mark after it. Meaning this is a ‘sit-out.’ I can’t dance, you know.”

“Oh, I know all about you,” she said, dropping down on the chair beside him. “I’ve just returned from a weekend in Yorkshire, where your friend, Lord Chadleigh, was one of the guests.”

“Good God!
George?”
He gaped at her. “You were at Felicia’s with George?”

“Yes. Yes, I was.”

“Then where the devil is he? If you made it here tonight, why didn’t he?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say,” Elaine said. “He disappeared on Sunday without saying good-bye to anyone. I believe he went to Scotland.”

“Scotland?” The anger that he’d felt all day returned in full force. “What possessed him to do that?”

“I’m not sure. I think it had something to do with Felicia’s friend who lives there. But, Sir Bernard, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your friend George. Do you think he might be a bit thoughtless in his dealings with the female sex?”

“Thoughtless?” Bernard felt his teeth clench. “I think he’s thoughtless in
all
his dealings, damn him!” He drew in a deep breath to regain control of his temper. “I beg your pardon, Miss... er ... Whitmore, is it? . .. for my rude language, but I think it best that we avoid discussing George at this moment. Instead, why don’t you explain to me how my name appeared on your dance card.”

Elaine eyed him curiously. “Harriet Renwood put it there, of course. She signed your name on the cards of several of her friends. Didn’t you know?”

“Yes, I suppose I did. Did she also give you instructions as to how to deal with me?”

“Not exactly. She only said to be sure we sat with you for the length of a dance and that we made pleasant company for you.”

With his teeth clenched even tighter, Bernard reached for his crutches. “Thank you, Miss Whitmore, for giving me your time. When you next see Miss Renwood, assure her that you, and the other young ladies who ‘sat out’ with me, were pleasant indeed.”

Elaine could not miss the fury in his voice. “But, sir,” she asked in alarm, “you’re not leaving, are you?”

“At once,” he said shortly, heaving himself up on his crutches.

“But there are at least four more ladies who have your name on their cards!”

“That is to be regretted, I’m sure,” he snapped as he hobbled off, “but they’ll have to find another fellow to ‘sit out’ with them.”

As he made his way around the dance floor to the doorway, Bernard grew more and more enraged. It was becoming quite clear to him what Harriet’s intentions had been. Not wishing to indulge him this time as she’d done that wonderful evening when she’d not left his side, she’d passed him on to her friends. She’d divided up the chore (for surely making conversation with a cripple had to be considered a chore) into neat little parcels of time—the length of one dance. He could almost hear her giving instructions to her friends:
“Surely you can spare one dance to make the poor fellow happy.”
Maybe she’d even hoped that one of her friends might take to him. Then Harriet herself wouldn’t have to feel so sorry for him.

He was halfway down the stairs to the outer door when he heard his name called from above. “Bernard! You can’t be leaving!”