The Wedding Wager (6 page)

“So what do you think now?” asked Lady Dearing.

“I’m confused,” said Harry. “I thought the goddess Diana was determined to remain chaste?”

“Men always desire what is forbidden,” replied Lady Dearing.

“They like a challenge. Venus would have been too obvious.”

“Perhaps you are right. And Diana is a huntress, so that fits in with our scheme,” said Harry nervously, still staring at her reflection. “Are you certain I don’t look ridiculous?”

“Of course you look ridiculous, dear. Everyone does at a true costume ball. But you look enchanting as well.”

“Enchanting?” Such a word had never been used to describe
her
.

“Trust me, my dear. Your friend Julian doesn’t stand a chance.”

Harry tried to keep Lady Dearing’s encouraging words in mind as the widow’s carriage swept her toward the house in Richmond where the masquerade ball was to be held. Nervously, she reviewed her plan.

She would enter by a side door Lady Dearing had told her of, which led almost directly to the ballroom. There she would dance and flirt as Lady Dearing had taught her, but give her name to no one and speak in a huskier voice than her usual one. She would find Julian, lure him into the garden and induce him to kiss her, using one ruse or another. Lady Dearing had given her a number of suggestions.

The deed done, Harry would leave before matters progressed any farther, and Lady Dearing’s discreet servants would drive her back to Kent, where she’d spend the remainder of the night at the secluded cottage of her old Nurse. She would wash the dye out of her hair and walk back home. Everyone would think she’d spent the entire time with Nurse, who had obligingly agreed to pretend she was ailing. Then, if all went well, Julian would arrive to tell her she had won. If only she could be sure nothing would go wrong!

Julian was sure to attend the masquerade; the hostess, Mrs. Gorewell, was his cousin. In her youth, Mrs. Gorewell had disgraced herself by running away with a clerk, and had not been accepted back into society since making such a misalliance. Her husband had prospered, inheriting a business from his wealthy employer and since then the couple had taken to lavish entertaining. Their rather daring parties were attended by an piquant mix of guests: persons in Trade, actors, artists, and members of the
haut ton
who were not so high in the instep as to cut Mrs. Gorewell’s acquaintance. Including Julian.

Still, Harry couldn’t be at all certain she would be able to attract him. Despite her altered appearance, she still found it difficult to see herself as a
femme fatale
. And was it right to deceive him so? Even if it was for his own good? And what if he recognized her? That would put the fat in the fire indeed!

She continued to worry until the coach slowed; the unpleasant flutter in the pit of her stomach increased as she realized she had reached her destination. A few minutes later, she had succeeded in entering the house without attracting any undue notice. Despite a shaky feeling in her legs, she swiftly made her way toward the ballroom. Once there, however, she stopped short on the threshold.

Julian had once told Harry that his cousin spared no effort to make her parties memorable. He hadn’t exaggerated. Mrs. Gorewell must have hired a veritable army of carpenters, painters and seamstresses to transform the ballroom into an appropriately brilliant setting for a masquerade. Immediately to her right, Harry saw colorful pennants hanging over the turrets of a makeshift castle; in the corner to her left, sand, potted palms and exotic draperies suggested an eastern desert. In the far left corner rose the quaint roofs of several miniature Chinese pagodas, while in the far right corner, a row of Ionic columns under a sweep of blue fabric painted with white clouds could only be Mount Olympus.

Against this colorful backdrop, musicians played, and Mrs. Gorewell’s guests, arrayed variously as knights and princesses, satyrs and nymphs, gods and goddesses, either danced or stood about chatting in small groups.

A magical setting, where magical things could happen.

Harry looked about, but she couldn’t see Julian. Perhaps he hadn’t arrived yet, or was in one of the adjacent rooms. She was so busy looking that it took her several moments to realize that most of the guests who were not dancing, and even some of those who were, had their eyes on her.

Oh dear
! Despite Lady Dearing’s efforts, she must still look ridiculous, else why would they all stare so? For an instant, Harry wrestled with the urge to take instant flight.

Then a young gentleman dressed as Robin Hood approached her and stammered out a request for the next dance. She accepted, realizing it would be cowardly to run away without having made some attempt to execute her plan.

As she danced, she found herself relaxing slightly. Far from laughing at her, young Robin Hood was inclined to stammer when he spoke, and redden when she smiled at him. He must be very shy, she thought; perhaps that was why he’d taken pity on her earlier embarrassment, and why he was paying her some hesitant compliments. She dreaded the end of the dance, for she didn’t dare hope that there would be others at the ball who would show the same kindness.

By some miracle, her hand was immediately claimed for the next dance by a nautical gentleman attired as Neptune, wearing a blue robe and carrying a trident. Surprisingly, he paid her several broad compliments as well, even though he seemed more worldly than Robin Hood, and not at all shy.

When the second dance ended, she still hadn’t spotted Julian, but to her surprise, she found herself surrounded by aspiring partners and besieged with offers of refreshment. Perhaps she did look rather well after all, she thought, recklessly downing a glass of champagne. She peered between her admirers, hoping to catch a glimpse of Julian. What would she do if he didn’t come?

Her eyes were still roving when she heard one of her companions curse under his breath. She saw another gentleman seeking entry into the circle around her, and her newfound confidence shattered as she saw who it was. Sir Digby Pettleworth!

It was easy enough to recognize him; apparently he disdained wearing a true costume. His simple mask did not hide his handsome but supercilious features. Harry’s heart sank as she watched him raise a quizzing-glass to observe her more closely.

To hide her foreboding, she turned and laughed at something Neptune had just said to her, even as a host of anxious questions assailed her. What if Sir Digby recognized her? But no, that was foolish; of course he wouldn’t remember her after so many years. But what if he once again decided to pronounce her unworthy of his interest? Would her new admirers desert her? If they did, how would she ever regain her courage enough to try to attract Julian?

As she fretted, Sir Digby seemed to complete his assessment.

“O bright and glorious goddess Diana, take pity on a lowly worshipper. Please grant me just one dance,” said Sir Digby, in the oily voice she remembered so well.

She couldn’t help staring at him for a moment. She had never expected this! She could hear admiration, but also a strange hint of desperation in his voice. Taking a second look, Harry realized that the past five years had not treated Sir Digby kindly. His face seemed yellow and lined from dissipation, and he was developing a paunch. She felt an unexpected stirring of pity for him. Still, the thought of dancing with him filled her with revulsion.

She was on the verge of telling him that she was already engaged for all of the remaining dances, when she and the gentlemen around her all started at the sound of a high-pitched shriek coming from somewhere behind them.

“Oh Digby! Dear Sir Dig-bee!” the voice squealed.

Harry turned to see a stout Shepherdess beckoning toward Sir Digby from the entrance to the ballroom. The lady was a rather frightening sight, with her brassy yellow hair and an ominous-looking crook in her hand. Her expression was menacing.

“I am desolated, but I must leave you. Perhaps later?” said Sir Digby.

She gave a little shake of her head. Looking crestfallen, he bowed and quickly made his way toward the Shepherdess.

“Poor Pettleworth,” said Neptune, watching him leave.

A portly gentleman appropriately costumed as Henry VIIIth nodded and asked, “Quite rolled-up this time, ain’t he?”

“He must be, to pursue Miss Dudley,” said a third gentleman.

“Oh, is she wealthy?” Harry asked, unable to restrain her curiosity.

“Her father is a banker who wishes her to marry into society,” said Neptune. “But with the exception of Sir Digby, no one seems to be quite desperate enough to pay court to her.”

“
I
wouldn’t, not if it was the choice between her and a debtor’s prison!” said Henry VIIIth, with a booming, rather unpleasant laugh.

“Oh, poor girl,” said Harry.

“She’s known to be quite a shrew. It’ll be poor Sir Digby soon enough,” said Neptune.

Seeing the proprietary way Miss Dudley looked at Sir Digby, Harry couldn’t help but feel that this prediction was correct. It seemed a fitting end for him, and yet she found she couldn’t help pitying him a little. He was pathetic, and she should never have allowed his petty cruelty to drive her into a five year seclusion. Perhaps, if she had shown more courage, she might have eventually found her place in Society. Perhaps  . . .

But this was no time for idle musings on what might have been! She had to look for Julian. She scanned the ballroom, but still couldn’t see him, so she agreed to dance with Henry VIIIth. She found the stout gentleman moderately unpleasant, but she’d danced with most of the others already, and didn’t want to encourage them too much.

She continued to scan through the crowd, even as she danced. She was so absorbed in searching for Julian, she hardly noticed the way Henry VIIIth gave her hand a tight squeeze every time the movement of the dance gave him an opportunity to touch her, but merely looked coldly at him whenever he did so.

Finally she spotted Julian, standing near the entrance. He looked magnificent, in a red tunic over a coat of chain-mail, a sword at his side and a shield slung over his shoulder. A light helmet covered his head and the upper half of his face, but his smile was unmistakable. He turned slightly to speak to someone, and she saw that the shield was white as snow, with a red cross emblazoned in the center.

Sir Galahad the Pure!

She almost giggled. Then she reminded herself that this was no laughing matter. No doubt Julian had chosen to play the virtuous, celibate knight as a deliberate if humorous message to warn off ambitious females.

Then she caught him looking back at her, and something about his stance made her think perhaps she’d captured his interest. She met his gaze, then looked away, as Lady Dearing had told her to do. The next time the movement of the dance had her facing in his direction, she gave him another coy, fleeting smile. Unfortunately, her partner was facing her and took the gesture for himself.

“Ah, you are not made of ice after all, divine Diana!” he said thickly as he came forward to twirl her around and lead her into the next movement.

As she heard the music come to an end, she sighed with relief. However, instead of releasing her, Henry VIIIth grasped her hand tightly, and began to walk her toward the open doors at one end of the ballroom. She realized then that there was a strong aroma of spirits about him. He was also much stronger than she had expected, despite his protruding stomach. She wondered what to do. Lady Dearing’s instructions hadn’t included how to deal with amorous drunkards.

She protested and tried to pull away, but he went on, impervious. She looked about, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to them. Her throat tightened with panic, and wondered if she would be able to scream if she had to. She recoiled at the thought of making such a scene, yet it might be necessary.

“Unhand the lady!” she heard from behind her. Thank God, it was Julian’s voice!

“Why should I? The tart’s mine!” grunted Henry VIIIth.

“Because I’ll pitch you headfirst into the rosebushes if you don’t let her go. In fact, you had better leave. I know my cousin and her husband do not tolerate such boorish behavior at their parties.”

Henry VIIIth looked up at Julian’s unsmiling face. For a moment, Harry feared there would be a fight; then Henry VIIIth apparently decided his odds were not good against an irate, athletic and apparently sober young gentleman. He released Harry, mumbled an apology, and wandered off aimlessly.

Harry leaned against a pillar in relief.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Julian asked gently.

“No, J—” Harry stopped in confusion, realizing she’d almost called him by name. Now that she was safe, she had to gather her wits and try to execute her plan. Remembering to disguise her voice, she continued, “Just frightened me a little. I’m afraid I am unaccustomed to such behavior.”

“No lady should ever be accustomed to such behavior.”

“Thank you so much for rescuing me. Sir Galahad, is it not?” she said with what she hoped was an inviting smile.

“Entirely at your service, Goddess Diana,” said Julian, with a graceful bow. “Rescuing damsels in distress is my specialty.”

Harry relaxed slightly. She thought she saw an admiring glint in his eyes, even through the mask, and was encouraged to see he was disposed to flirt. Hopefully, she could follow his lead.