Susanne Marie Knight (7 page)

Goodness gracious. This is a sad state of affairs. Whatever am I going to do?

Wringing her gloved hands, Bethany took a step behind her hostess, who was at present busy talking with a few acquaintances and admirers. She moved over to the wall, where a painting of a happy, well-to-do couple captured her attention. Its neoclassical style featured intricate details such as the elegant folds in the woman’s gown and the meticulous arrangement of the lace of the gentleman’s cravat. She took a brief refuge from the party by studying the canvas. Only when she spotted the artist’s signature did she sigh and turn away. This masterpiece had been painted by Jacques Louis David — the famous French artist. Not that she had anything against Jacques Louis David, even though he had been the official painter to Napoleon Bonaparte’s short-lived but destructive reign. David, to her, did not mean a last name, but first, as in David Greyle, the Earl of Ingraham. David, who had just referred to her as “my dear Miss Branford.”

His
Miss Branford.

The sound of that endearing phrase had caused her heart to soar. But then, his following words had crashed her back to the ground.

To be truthful and honorable are virtues to be commended, my dear.

Even now she flushed with the remembrance. The admiration in his voice, the special glow to his eyes…

Fie on it.

Although she felt an emotional bond with him, she warred with her conflicting emotions. The truth of it was, she
wasn’t
truthful. Nor even honorable. In fact, she brimmed full of deceit, full of guilt at thus taking advantage of the Earl and his household.

Her unseemly ambition was to be a published writer of popular novels. What would Lord Ingraham think, indeed, what would he say if
— dear God, please no —
if he ever found out her secret?

Oh, for such a breach of etiquette as this, he would condemn her most readily. His ire would blaze out of those uncompromising eyes of his. He would not care to look upon her. He would not wish to speak with her. Her woman’s intuition told her all this…and much, much more.

Bethany hung her head. Was clandestinely penning a novel worth this possible disgrace? Should he discover her perfidy, could she bear to lose his high regard? But how else was she to manage her expenses if not through an occupation?

“There you are, Bethany,” Petunia called out as she weaved her way through the party revelers. “The crush here is so frightful. I have been looking everywhere for you.” Stopping by the painting, Petunia patted her hand over her heart as if to calm that particular organ’s frantic beating. She was radiating a happiness Bethany could not hope ever to achieve. “’Tis Weatherhaven. He’s just arrived. I do so want to introduce you.”

Bethany smiled at her young hostess and took her arm. “And I am looking forward to meeting your Lord Weatherhaven. What is his direction?”

“Over by that dreadful statue. You know the one — the garish bronze figure. How could you overlook it? Half man, half goat.” She shuddered.

The Duchess’ ballroom was very large indeed, with a multitude of artworks to marvel at. But one could not fail to notice the tall Greek satyr avidly playing his soundless horn regardless of the company. Petunia dashed through the crowd, towing Bethany by her side. She nodded at several acquaintances but didn’t stop to talk. The only words that passed her lips were for Bethany.

“The dear man misses me so,” Petunia breathlessly called behind her as she headed for her destination — the horn-playing man/goat. Reaching the gargantuan monstrosity, Petunia halted, then peeked around to the back of it. “Weatherhaven is right over…here.”

Bethany reached Petunia’s side. The area behind the statue yielded no presence of Lord Weatherhaven…nor of anyone else for that matter.

“Faddle.” Petunia stood up onto her toes. The delicate curls on her upswept coiffure quivered with intensity as she searched the grand ballroom for her husband. “Now where did the man get off to?”

As Bethany had never seen Lord Weatherhaven, she could be of no assistance in locating the man. She did, however, see something on the dance floor that severely disturbed her equanimity.

Lady Ingraham, her attractive face flushed with excitement, participated in a lively cotillion with her escort, Mr. Fenwick. Unfortunately, she danced with such abandon, she forgot herself. To facilitate her steps, she lifted the hem of her satin round gown so high, several inches of her ankles were revealed to all and sundry.

Bethany blushed. Lady Ingraham’s inappropriate display embarrassed not only herself but her entire family. Bethany’s immediate concern, however, wasn’t for Lady Ingraham, but for David. She put her hand out to touch Petunia’s shoulder. “Petunia, your mother is — ”

“Gracious.” Petunia wasn’t focused on Lady Ingraham’s imprudent behavior. Instead, she stared in the opposite direction.

Bethany followed her hostess’ gaze. She saw a distinguished gentleman with dark curls tinged with grey, leaning over a seated young woman. He raised the woman’s gloved hand to his lips, then kissed her fingers. The woman gave the man such a wide smile that no one could possible think her a demure young miss.

Petunia gasped. “That hussy!”

Before Bethany had a chance to stop her, Petunia charged headlong toward the man. Was he Lord Weatherhaven?

Bethany took a moment to sigh before heading after Petunia. Life in the village of Bamburgh, Northumberland had been so much simpler than here in London, with its big city intrigues.

Dashing about the dance floor as if on fire was a pastime reserved only for the young and the foolish. Unfortunately, David considered his sister both. So it was no surprise to see Petunia race from one end of the ballroom to the other.

Demmed inappropriate.

And since her expression was set as if she were preparing to battle the enemy, he feared some sort of unpleasant confrontation would soon take place. He had to avert disaster. Making his way over in her direction as nonchalantly as he could, he then spotted the source of her agitation.

Lord Weatherhaven was paying his respects to the Marquess of Overton’s daughter, Lady Harriet.

That in itself would not have generated excitement, except for the fact that Weatherhaven had offered for Lady Harriet during the Last Season. Lady Harriet had refused the viscount, and that had been that.

Or so David thought.

With her blue eyes flashing, Petunia stared up at her lord and master. Her hands tightened into fists, her narrow jaw jutted. If she were a man, she would have been a prime candidate to frequent Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon.

Pity the man who was to be her opponent.

Weatherhaven was oblivious, as great men often were concerning their spouses. And as the Weatherhaven marriage was of such a recent occurrence, David’s understanding of Lady Petunia had to have been far superior than that of her husband’s.

“Petunia, here you are. I’ve been looking for you.” Weatherhaven, a tall man slightly prone to portliness, inclined his curly dark head at his wife.

David readied to speak, and Petunia opened her mouth, but grey-garbed Bethany, hovering by his sister’s side, was the one who spoke first.

“My lady, would you do me the honor of introducing me to your husband?” Bethany turned her attention to Weatherhaven. “I am so deeply indebted to you, kind sir, for allowing your wife to see to my amusement here in London.”

While Weatherhaven replied, David smiled warmly at her. He should have known his country miss would have the wherewithal to smooth over this little contretemps.

Petunia blinked those china blue eyes of hers, obviously needing a few more seconds to compose herself. David jumped in and performed the introductions himself.

Then he turned to the still-seated Lady Harriet. “Lady Harriet, may I present Bethany Branford, our cousin from Bamburgh, Northumberland?”

Lady Harriet regally glanced up, then looked down her prominent, hooked nose. “Delighted, I’m sure.”

The woman looked as far from delighted as could be. In fact, as cross as crabs was a phrase that could adequately describe Lady Harriet.

David withheld his amusement. “If you will please excuse us, Lady Harriet.”

Without waiting for her reply, he shepherded his sister, her errant husband and Bethany in the direction of the Duchess of Margrove’s large cloakroom. They weaved through the closely packed revelers. All were silent, except for Weatherhaven — he attempted to make inconsequential conversation.

Poor fellow was still unaware he faced a monumental frost. It would take more than a few well-phrased words to thaw out Petunia.

Indeed, his sister seemed to be a pot readying to come to a boil.

Once inside the room, the pot boiled over.

David quickly gazed around. Only three guests lingered within the gloomy walls of the cloakroom, but they were three too many.

“Weatherhaven, how could you dance attendance on that dreadful person? I am beyond mortified.” Petunia stamped her tiny foot, losing all pretenses of civility.

“My dear.” Weatherhaven cleared his throat. “Whatever is the matter?”

He did not moderate his tone to accommodate this intimate gathering. He spoke as if addressing his peers in the House of Lords.

Bethany leaned in and lowered her voice. “The hour is far advanced, my lord, and indeed, the air is quite close in the ballroom.” She used her hand to fan her face, most likely for effect. “Perhaps you and Lady Petunia would prefer to repair to your own home for a comfortable coze?”

Again, David smiled approvingly at his houseguest. Bethany had the invaluable gift of knowing exactly the right thing to say.

Petunia fluttered her lashes. “But Davy, were you not desirous of me to stay at your townhouse?”

“Our mother is here now, Pet, and she has taken Miss Branford under her wing.” David glanced at Bethany and smiled once more. By the stars, he could not help smiling at his young protégée, could he? He turned back to his sister. “In any event, you and Weatherhaven must make your plans for the upcoming journey to Paris.”

“Indeed we do.” Weatherhaven nodded, then walked over to the cloakroom attendant. “We must have all the arrangements in place before the winter sets in.”

After he procured his great coat and his wife’s warm pelisse from the attendant, Weatherhaven helped Petunia into the garment, then shrugged into his coat. Then the Viscount and Viscountess Weatherhaven left to wait in the anteroom while their carriage was brought to the front door. They were both silent. Silent as the grave, as the saying went.

David did not envy the man. Soon, very soon, Petunia would acquaint Weatherhaven with the nature of his crime. She would harangue her husband until she was blue in the face.

Poor bastard.

But Petunia’s ire was not David’s concern. Once more he smiled, set Bethany’s hand on his arm, and led her back into the ballroom.

Bethany walked back into the ballroom on Lord Ingraham’s arm. Although she felt like a queen, walking with him and seeing everyone’s admiring glances, a sense of sadness weighted down her soul.

Again she contrasted the simplicities of village life to the city of London. More specifically, she thought of her new friend, Lady Petunia. One would think just by looking at her, that she had everything a woman could desire. Attractiveness, good breeding, noble birth, wealth, a fine husband…but something was missing. Something so important, it cut in Petunia’s very fiber.

Lady Petunia felt threatened. She did not feel loved.

Loved by her husband, at any rate. Petunia was insecure, a feeling that was as alien to this noble woman as was the thought of wearing rags and going hungry.

Bethany sighed. If only she could help the proud but humbled Petunia.

Standing by one of the marble Ionic columns strategically placed near the side walls of the room, she felt the Earl stir by her side.

“Are you tired, Miss Branford?” he inquired. “Shall I procure some refreshments for you?”

“No, thank you, sir.” She adjusted her scarf to allow a breeze of air to cool her off. “I, um, I was just thinking about your sister.”

“And you became blue-deviled. I understand.” He glanced at her, then looked away. “Seeing Weatherhaven pay court to a former rival took the wind out of Petunia’s sails, that much is certain.”

Bethany lifted up onto her toes and whispered in Lord Ingraham’s ear. “Does Lord Weatherhaven…regret marrying your sister?”

The Earl took his time in answering. He raised his gaze to the ornamental ceiling with its golden molding and brilliant chandeliers, traveled over the ballroom dancers, then settled back onto Bethany’s face. “If Weatherhaven does have regrets, then I shall have to box his ears, eh?”

He spoke in jest. She could discern that by the good-humored twinkle in his blue eyes.

“Indeed, sir.” She dimpled a smile. “Pray, tell me, what will happen if Lord Weatherhaven decides to box your ears as well?”

His unrestrained laughter attracted more attention from nearby partygoers.

“Well, Miss Branford, if that were to happen, then there would be two coxcombs wandering about London with reddened ears, wouldn’t you say?”

Her smile deepened. “Just so, sir.”

“Come, Miss Branford.” David — she could think of him now as David — held out his hand. “Let us join these other couples in the quadrille. We may make merry together one last time before we take our leave for the evening.”

Newer than the waltz, at least in England, the quadrille was proving to be a popular addition to ballrooms everywhere. Bethany gave David her hand, and all at once they were swept up in the energetic music and movements.

Oh, how glorious it was to be dancing with David — changing partners with the gentlemen in the dance square, but always coming back to David. He looked so handsome in his black tailcoat, knee breeches and stockings. His eyes, so crystal clear, seemed to focus only on her. But then, David’s expression altered. And his eyes, sparkling only a moment before, now hardened like stone cold steel.

She followed his gaze, then lifted her left hand to her mouth in alarm.

Goodness! Two squares over, his mother, Lady Ingraham, also was enjoying the quadrille. Too much so, in fact. With her arms moving this way and that, she caused the hem on her gown to raise as high as her knees.

Bethany cast a worried glance at David. She didn’t require the services of a fortuneteller to know that as soon as this dance ended, the Greyle party would be heading back to Grosvenor Square.

David wasted no time in confronting his mother. Even before the last violin strands faded from the musicians’ stringed instruments, he bowed to his fellow dancers, took Bethany’s arm and headed two squares over to Lady Ingraham’s position.

He had no fear that Bethany would misunderstand his haste. Her golden eyes had viewed for herself his mother’s inappropriate behavior. Indeed, he felt heartily ashamed of the embarrassment…and in some cases amusement Olive Greyle caused tonight’s partygoers. Even those with a modicum of decency had been put to the blush.

Tapping upon his mother’s shoulder, he strove to keep his voice emotionless. “Madam, it is time for us to repair back to the house.”

“My, oh my! David, there you are. And Bethany, how lovely you look.” His mother’s plump cheeks were reddened by her exertions, not embarrassment. She clapped her hands together with obvious delight. “Such an agreeable rout, to be sure, to be sure.”

Thankfully, the hem on her satin round gown remained on the floor. She lifted her chin and her bright blue ostrich plumes to glance around the ballroom. “Leave? Now? Why, surely, the night has only just begun.”

Fenwick, that cad of a fellow, stood by the sidelines, not saying a word. He watched with those limpid brown eyes of his, his gaze flitting from his patroness to David.

That his mother even condescended to acknowledge the man was vexing in the extreme. And to think the Countess favored the slippery fellow…

“My lady.” Bethany stepped forward. “I fear it is I who have cast a pall on your merrymaking.” With her fingertips, she massaged a spot on her left temple in a circular fashion. “I have a frightful megrim.”

“Truly, child, I had no idea. But of course we shall leave. We shall leave at once.” Her maternal feeling engaged, Lady Ingraham rushed forward and ,murmured soothing words to help ease Bethany’s real…or imagined discomfort.

David glanced at his mother, then turned away. He straightened the silver buttons on the sleeves of his tailcoat as he composed his turbulent emotions.

Olive wasn’t a bad woman. In truth she had been the very best of females…until his father received his notice to quit five years ago. Since that time, she tried to fill the void she’d felt in her heart by engaging in inappropriate behaviors, by indulging in physical pleasures, instead of mature piety.

Would that she be turned back onto the proper path once more.

With his mother thus occupied ministering to Bethany, he smiled his approval once again, at his houseguest. She was a quick thinker. In but a moment, she had shifted the Countess’ resistance into glad acquiescence.

“Let us make our farewells to the Duchess before she participates in another dance.” David hurried his mother along while she was still of a mind to leave.

The Countess took a step, then pulled back. “Yes, yes, of course. First I shall say my goodbyes to dear Fenwick, and then we will be off.”

David shrugged. Too bad his mother did not give that man the setdown that he truly deserved.

The flowery fragrance of jasmine drifted over to David, signaling that Bethany had moved closer.