Lady Roma's Romance (7 page)

After she’d accepted an invitation to dance from a scholarly sort, Roma took a moment to stand and look about her. It would be indecorous to hesitate too long. She might appear to be one of those girls who angled for partners, instead of waiting demurely for an invitation or an introduction.

Her father had disappeared, as was his wont, into a side chamber or a cloakroom, there to sit and nod sleepily until it pleased her to find him for his escort home. Roma admitted that she was indeed looking for Bret. Would she espy that expression in his eyes as he spoke to another woman? And what matter if he did?

She saw an empty gilt chair beside one of her acquaintances from London and started toward it. Before she’d gone a dozen steps, however, Bret materialized beside her. Before she could speak, he handed her a cup of punch. “You look thirsty.”

“Yes, I am. Thank you.” As she took the crystal cup, she reminded herself to keep to neutral topics. “How is Lady Brownlow’s cold progressing?”

“She finds herself much better today,” Bret said gravely. “Her symptoms are passing off.”

“I’m very glad to hear it. When do you think she’ll permit me to call?”

“A few days. I notice she has suffered no qualms over exposing me to danger, but she had near palpitations when I conveyed your request.”

“I wrote again today, reminding her that I am never ill. Do you still think it hopeless?”

“Perhaps she’ll relent tomorrow. The ginger tea you sent seems to be helping.”

“It’s not the tea,” Roma said with a smile. “It’s the white pepper.”

“White pepper?”

“My nurse’s old recipe for a head cold. White ginger, white pepper, hot water, and a drop of honey. It’s also good if you feel a cold coming on, so bear that in mind.” In obedience to her vow, Roma did not continue. She’d already said more than she had intended.

“I will, but I, too, am very rarely ill.”

Roma finished her punch, also a potent mixture, and gave Mr. Donovan the cup. “Thank you.”

He passed their cups to a footman and remained beside her. “Do you attend many of these evenings?”

“Why, yes. It’s my care to see that Father always puts our name in the subscription book as soon as we arrive.”

“And do you enjoy them?” His eyebrows lifted. “Be honest.”

“I’m always honest,” she said, stung. “Of course, I enjoy meeting my friends and . . . and the dancing.”

Bret cast a critical eye over the company. “Excellent form, most of them. Say, I do like the little fellow in the dark coat. Look at him spin! Like a top who has shaken off all restraint.”

Roma choked and looked severe when he offered to fetch her a glass of water. “No, thank you. That’s Mr. Billings or Wilkins or something of that sort. He’s a very nice young man. A clerk in an attorney’s firm.”

“Who’s the beauty he’s dancing with?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Roma said. “I’m so sorry I can’t introduce you.”

“That’s all right. I’ll introduce myself. I do like that very light blond hair, don’t you? Especially with all that red silk.”

“Yes, she’s very pretty.” While they stood there together, Roma began to fume quietly. Why didn’t he escort her to an empty seat instead of standing beside her, ogling outrageously flighty girls in too-bright dresses. Or ask her to dance? She could not walk away and leave him standing all alone, for that would give rise to the very sort of gossip she was anxious to avoid. At least she was holding her tongue, keeping to her vow.

“Of course,” Bret said, turning his intent eyes upon her. “There’s quite a lot to be said for auburn hair and pale yellow silk.”

“Not when put to the blush,” Roma countered, as the heat rose into her cheeks. She had hoped for some control over her blushes upon gaining years, yet she was still as easily betrayed at twenty-four as at seventeen.

“I didn’t mean to put you out of countenance,” he said, with a slight, apologetic bow. “You are quite beautiful, you know.”

“I cannot very well admit to any such thing. The most I will allow is that I am very well to pass.”

“You are . . . well, I don’t want to increase your blushes.”

“I prefer that you do not,” Roma said, though it was a lie. She wouldn’t have minded his developing his ideas on that subject. Had any man except her father paid her compliments since Elliot’s death? Elliot himself had not been overly generous with praise. He seemed to think that their engagement was proof enough of his feelings, and she, so flattered by the bare fact of his attention, asked for no more.

Roma looked out toward the dancing, her foot tapping beneath the hem of her gown. The orchestra had found a piece they could all play in the same rhythm. Several gentlemanly acquaintances, the brothers and cousins of friends, were gazing about in search of partners.

Despite her vow, Roma refused to indulge in hinting, a female practice she despised. If a woman wanted to do something, she should allow no fear of public opinion to prevent her. She was not, after all, seventeen. “Would you care to dance, Mr. Donovan?”

Now his face darkened with a blush. “I... um ...”

Roma realized that she knew all sorts of things about Bret Donovan. His favorite color was yellow, though she told herself that was not why she’d chosen this butter-colored dress. He confessed to a fatal weakness for Sally Lunn buns, but only those of authentic Bath-make. Otherwise, he’d choose anything with fruit. He preferred instructing works over novels. He didn’t like scented soap but would accept sandalwood if they had nothing else. He’d been born on the west coast of Ireland to an English woman married to the master of four hundred largely worthless acres which ended abruptly at towering, sea-washed cliffs. He’d learned to ride at four years of age.

Yet, for all this, she felt she knew nothing, not even whether he could dance. What did he want from his life? Why did his smile sometimes turn bitter? Did he admire her or was this merely habitual flirtation? She feared the worst.

“Can you dance?” she asked quietly.

“No. I...”

Before he could make whatever answer hesitated on his lips, Roma heard a very familiar laugh, like scales played on silver bells. “Dina,” she said, turning. “She’s seen us. There’s no escape.”

“Do you want to escape?”

“Of course. She read me such a scold .. . Well, I don’t mean that exactly, but she thought it most improper to be caught in the rain with a stranger.”

“So it is, or would be, if it had been anyone but me. Who is the man with her? Derwent?”

“No, it’s someone else. I don’t know him.” The slender young man, hardly more than a boy, was frightfully well dressed, everything both new and handsome about him. Yet, though his fine feathers fit to a nicety, he seemed far from comfortably at home in them. He adjusted his cuffs, ran his fingers over the lapel of his coat, and plucked at his fantasy of a cravat.

“Playing off the airs of an exquisite,” Bret said briefly. “You’re right; she’s corning this way. Shall we make a strategic retreat?”

“By all means,” Roma said.

They retreated as far as the refreshments, where, to Roma’s alarm, they were trapped between two fires. Her father, surprisingly, had left his eyrie in search of coffee. Roma glanced at him, up at Bret, and back at Dina. She wondered for one instant what she had done to deserve this.

“Come meet my father,” she said, choosing the safer alternative.

“How do you do, Mr. Donovan?” Lord Yarborough inclined his head, his eyes sharpening for a moment.

“Very well, indeed, my lord. A most pleasant evening.”

“I, alas, am too old to benefit from such social events. But the young people seem to appreciate them.”

“Are you tired?” Roma asked, eyeing the cup in his hand. He didn’t usually drink coffee so late. “Shall we go home?”

“No, no. I had a long chat with a very interesting gentleman recently returned from the Peninsula. He was quite the mine of information, full of good words regarding Wellington.”

Bret straightened. “He couldn’t very well say anything else, my lord.”

“Ah,” Lord Yarborough said, nodding. “You are also one of his partisans?”

“I admire his battle strategies.”

“And the man?” Lord Yarborough grimaced as he brought his cup to his lips.

“Are you feeling worse, Father?” Roma asked. She’d agreed to attend this evening’s dance only because he’d assured her that his back was much improved and that his escort duty was a welcome one.

“The waters are working their usual miracle, my dear. I bathed for more than an hour today, though the attendants did not appreciate my lingering so long. But, alas, not even Bath can cure all ills.”

“Lumbago, sir?” Bret asked with sympathy in his tone.

“A trifle of stiffness,” Lord Yarborough admitted. “Comes of digging too enthusiastically. And yourself, Mr. Donovan?”

“I? I don’t suffer from anything the waters of Bath can aid.”

Roma recalled the limp she’d seen the first day they’d met. Was he hiding some infirmity? Was this why he would or could not dance with her? She resolved to visit Lady Brownlow, not merely as a sick visit, but to question her subtly about Bret.

“I understand from my daughter that you are assisting Lady Brownlow with some legal difficulties?”

“Yes.
She is a dear woman but not always wise.”

“A very trusting woman. Given to great sensibility. If I can assist you, do not scruple to call upon me.”

Roma released a little breath. It was always chancy introducing two men. She recalled well how Elliot had resisted meeting her father. When they did at last meet, his politeness had smoothed over whatever natural emotions they’d felt Elliot had been very talented at that sort of family diplomacy.

 “Here you are!” Dina swept up, caroling, as though she’d found children playing at hide-and-seek. “May I present Mr. Gilbert Bascom?”

Young Mr. Bascom looked as if he’d been washed, pressed, and polished to a high sheen. The impression of nervousness Roma had received at first sight was reinforced by his awkwardness upon meeting an earl and his daughter. His bow nearly put him into her father’s lap, and he ... twitched. She smiled on him as warmly as she could, trying to put him at ease.

“Are you new come to Bath, Mr. Bascom?”

“Y-yes, Lady Roma,” he said, ducking his head as if to avoid a blow. “I arrived only yesterday.”

“And my cousin Dina has brought you to your first Assembly in the Lower Rooms. An excellent start to your visit. I have rarely seen such a fine bevy of dancers.”

“Yes, indeed.” Though the impact of the music was considerably lessened by the space between themselves and the orchestra’s alcove, Mr. Bascom’s well-shod toe tapped.

“Dina will have to introduce you to a partner.”

“Oh, that’s why she brought...” He blushed, the rest of his words lost in an embarrassed mumble.

“That’s why she brought you to the Assembly? Well, you are not alone in arriving knowing no one and departing with a host of new acquaintances. If Dina doesn’t know someone, rest assured that I do.”

She realized she sounded odiously conceited, as one very much run after, but at least he did not tempt her into uttering any but the most banal phrases. Then she looked up to catch Bret looking at her, and she choked down a sudden laugh. Without a word, he handed her a glass of lemonade from the sideboard.

As she sipped it, glad to have something to do with her hands, she noticed Dina making faces at young Mr. Bascom, the sort effaces a mother would make at one of her more thick-witted young. Catching Roma’s looking at her with alarm, Dina showed a smile. “Mr. Bascom is a friend of Mr. Derwent.”

Roma doubted that. Mr. Derwent was well into his fifties, and Mr. Bascom had the appearance and mannerisms of one but newly come into his majority. Recalling that Dina had said Mr. Derwent had not yet been called to be guardian to minor children, she could yet believe that he’d been Mr. Bascom’s trustee.

A moment later, Mr. Bascom confirmed her guess. “He’s been like a father to me,” the young man said. “I have a father, of course, but he’s in India. Mr. Derwent has stood by me in his absence. No one could have been kinder or... or more awake on every suit. And he never scolds, you know, not even when I deserved it.”

“Mr. Derwent is a great man,” Roma said, moved by Mr. Bascom’s evident affection for his mentor.

Dina agreed, but absently. Once again, she’d begun to widen her eyes, this time giving little encouraging side flips of her head. It dawned on Roma that Dina was trying to get Mr. Bascom to ask her to dance rather faster than it occurred to Mr. Bascom. “What a charming tune they are playing,” Dina said archly. “Can it be a waltz?”

Given this broad hint, Mr. Bascom bowed to Dina and asked her to favor him. Her brows frowned, but her voice remained gay. “Not I. We matrons know it is only politeness when a man asks us to dance when younger, prettier girls stand by.”

At the end of their turn on the floor, Roma found a sweet child of seventeen, only just fledged, and introduced Mr. Bascom as an excellent performer in the dance, as indeed he was. After a moment, she excused herself and left them on the best of terms, watched over by her mother. Mr. Bascom’s voice dropped an octave when deferred to as an undoubted Man of the World.

Roma returned to the refreshments, only to find her father and Bret were gone. Quite a few people milled about, greeting acquaintances and choosing their dainties. Dina, however, sat by and looked up with interested eyes when Roma approached her. “Such a time I had preserving this seat,” she said, waving Roma to the other side of the small settee. “You would think people pay merely for the privilege of sitting beside me.”

“Where’s my father?”

“Oh, he and that Mr. Donovan went off to play loo or whist or some such. But tell me your opinion of Mr. Bascom.”

“I have none.”

“None?” Dina squeaked, fanning herself. “What do you mean ‘none’?”

“He’s a pleasant boy.”

“He’s twenty-one,” Dina said. “Well, just.”

“And that isn’t a boy?”

“Perhaps you are right. I must be growing old, Roma. They all look like children to me. Even girls I knew as babies have babies of their own.”

“Poor Dina,” Roma said, with a teasing smile. “But I notice you don’t lack for admirers.”