Vivian Roycroft (4 page)

Tuesday, March 16, 1813 continued

"I've always thought George Anson was handsome. Don't you?"

Belinda lounged on Beryl's four-poster, her pale muslin afternoon gown a colorless gleam against the silken primrose duvet. Her blond curls fell on either side of her face, hiding her expression, but her chubby hands stilled amidst the swirling ribbon the maid had set out for Beryl's hair. She'd been playing with it for an hour, winding it about her fingers and letting it unwind and drift down to the duvet, while Nan had curled and laced and puffed Beryl into her finery. It was the first moment Belinda had been still all afternoon.

"And a really good dancer." Still no movement. "Have you noticed?"

"George Anson?" Beryl shuddered, then took another deep breath and held it. Nan's fingers paused, then resumed fastening the evening gown's pearl buttons. Tug, twist; tug, twist; inch by inch down her spine, currently at the small of her back. "I try not to."

"Whyever not?" Belinda's face shot up, flinging back her obscuring curls. "His father's a lord and a senior bencher. They have a subscription to Almack's, for pity's sake, and boxes at the Olympic Theater and Goodwood."

George Anson. Despicable, self-centered, preening, ridiculous George Anson. Debbie Kringle had put him in his place with one long, cool stare at the Christmas Eve ball, after he'd tried to claim more than two dances with her. How everyone had laughed. Without letting him see, of course.

Then, they'd laughed. Now, she'd not shudder again; Nan deserved better, after the marvels she'd achieved with Beryl's flyaway copper curls. The rose pink satin ball gown, the only shade of pink or red that didn't clash horribly with said curls, was a smidgen tight, not to mention low cut and draping off her shoulders in the most provocative, daring manner. But it was also a nightmare to fasten all those tiny pearl buttons, and Nan didn't need further irritation.

Nor did Beryl, come to think of it.

"Or the Earl of Norcross." A heaved sigh, sagging shoulders, and dreamy eyes, which looked ridiculous in that heart-shaped face, with those plump, rosy cheeks. Not to mention all too overdone. "He must be one of the most handsome men in London, in the entire world." Belinda's eyes popped open. A bit too squinty for believability.

If only Papa would allow her to come out now.

A rustle of cotton, and Nan rose with a satisfied, wry nod. All done, and the rose pink satin hugged her waist and hips, flowed to the floor with the overdress of exquisite lace echoing each line. Beryl whirled from the mirror and grabbed the ribbon, yanking it from Belinda's startled fingers.

"I assure you, my girl, you'll have your chance. Norcross and George Anson will still be available when you come out. And you're welcome to them."

****

The ballroom's barrel roof soared above, Cipriani's murals lost in the chandeliers' burning glare. Primrose panels, white pilasters, and walls of the palest yellow all glowed in the candlelight, very much like the gilt work near the roof, and night pressed against the vaulted windows as if yearning for a ticket to the entertainment within. His Grace lounged before one pilaster, opposite the entrance, as the fashionable but not top-drawer crowd flowed past him, silks and pearls and witty conversation all glittering in the chandeliers' flames. Lady Grantholm fluttered her fan in passing; again he smiled at her, and again he let her go. Infidelity was the game of churls and not one that attracted him.

In one corner, Fitzwilliam stood out amongst a quartet of gentlemen by his sullenness, his only concession to the evening's supposed gaiety being the glass of champagne he held in one hand. Only his second drink, that was; alcoholic over-consumption, it seemed, was not one of his shortcomings. His friends, however, might be coming up a bit short, for while two of them were dressed normally and well, the fourth of the group wore full Highland regalia, from his belted plaid to his bare knees, outrageous stockings, and silver-buckled shoes, all in an eye-scalding combination of orange and black. The drifting, chattering crowd left a little circle about the wild man — the better, it seemed, for the ladies to eye his curved calves and the arrogant swirl of his hemline.

And
beau monde
society considered
him
outré
.

Near the opposite corner, beyond the musicians' dais, a bevy of beauties surrounded a still elegant matron with a lace cap, a suspicious stare, and thick brown curls the exact duplicate of Miss Violetta's. Actually, the relationship had to be the other way around, as this most assuredly was the maiden's mama, the Eighth Baron Lisle's esteemed wife. And amongst the ladies under her care, Miss Beryl stood out for the dusky rose pink of her gown, a clear flash of exquisite color visible all the way across the ballroom.

And what a gown.

It took a sturdy feminine heart to wear that assemblage of satin and lace. Not only because of the sheer amount of
décolletage
it displayed, not only for the suggestively accident-prone way the capped sleeves drooped off her shoulders, not even for the fact that she had to have abandoned breathing as impossible for the evening. No, this particular lady's main worry with that dress had to be its color, for that rose pink shade, while beautiful in itself, did not occupy a comfortable position on the color wheel in relation to her own coppery tresses. In the wrong lighting, such as a drab or overcast day, that combination of colors could be a walking disaster.

In the brilliant candlelight of the many massive chandeliers, it was stunning.

Any man who didn't torture himself by drinking in the vision of that nymph was leaving his discernment open to question. At best.

And Fitzwilliam stood with his back to that corner. Drinking champagne. Ignoring his Highland rogue friend's musically unaccompanied demonstration of a reel. As best anyone could ignore massed yards of orange-and-black plaid wool as its wearer capered like a goat on a mountain crag.

In truth, the rogue wasn't bad.

The three young ladies had clustered together since their arrival, their heads bent, chattering and laughing, Miss McTaggart in pale pomona green and Miss Violetta in deep evening primrose. Calling to friends, responding to the hopeful gentlemen who braved Lady de Lisle's glower, but mainly speaking amongst themselves in a huddle that proclaimed "
Secrets!
" to any who observed. And while Miss Beryl never glanced toward Fitzwilliam's corner — not even when the wild man interspersed his reel with a shouted battle cry, capable of penetrating all but the thickest social armor — neither of her lovely companions were able to resist the temptation of that most interesting portion of the room.

Finally Miss Beryl straightened from their huddle. Even as the other two ladies exchanged glances that didn't seem all that confident, she gave them a firm, decisive nod.

His cue, without a doubt.

The thick crowd parted in front of him like the Red Sea, bows and curtseys and whispers spreading before his path along the assembly room's long wall. His chosen pathway, beneath the line of massive chandeliers, threw the brilliant candlelight fully onto his face and dress, doubtless highlighting the fine woolen swallowtail, the silk of his white breeches, the subtle gleam of the signet ring on his left hand, his only jewelry. Carefully he'd instructed his valet regarding his evening's attire, and perfectly had that worthy man heeded and obeyed. That night, Beau Brummell wouldn't cut a finer figure.

Just as he'd intended.

Only once along that long wall did he pause. Susan York had only come out this year, was mere weeks past her presentation, and still the awed excitement of an assembly room brought a delicate rose-hued flush to her fresh young face. Eyes wide, she bobbed a graceful curtsey, small and blond, straight and graceful, so much like—

And Mistress York's eyes narrowed, in that unmistakably predatory maternal-matrimonial manner. His Grace bowed to Miss York, caught her glance in passing, and rewarded her sweet innocence with a smile, and then he moved on.

The long wall of the Hanover Square ballroom was long indeed. By the time His Grace reached Miss Beryl's corner, there could be no doubt that he commanded the attention of every person within. All eyes had traced the last steps of his path, and the assembly stilled, watching and waiting.

Hoping to ascertain the identity of his next victim.

Far be it from him to disappoint them.

The three young ladies dropped into lithe curtseys, and he bowed in response. Impossible not to smile at Lady de Lisle's astonished expression. But he fashioned the impulse into his most charming smile, not his rakish leer. Not yet time to bring forth that weapon.

The remainder of the assembly's noise died away. The Hanover Square ballroom fell still.

One heartbeat. Two. Three.

In a single second, five hundred hands produced five hundred fans — there, the rustle and flutter of fans flipping open, and the increasing, increasingly excited babble of discreet murmurs, surely behind those genteel covers. The gentlemen would simply have to make do as they could, should they decide to join the gossiping.

The blood rushed to Miss Beryl's face, brightening her complexion to the most amazing scarlet. Then she whitened to ivory, equally astonishing against her coppery curls.

Her eyes never left his. And of course, his never, ever left hers.

She hadn't realized what two dances with him meant.

She did now.

****

A duke, well, yes, of course; his presence in any assembly would grab everyone's attention and grip them until they burst out into the most wretched gossiping. Not on a long-odds bet would she glance toward the corner where Fitz cowered with his old Oxford chums. Nor would she look at anyone else. Although she had to admit, having so much attention in such a good manner was rather fun, underneath all her embarrassment.

And of course, Lady de Lisle had an apoplexy. Granted, she was sufficiently discreet to keep it from spraying out her ears. But not by much.

The only gaze she dared to meet was his.

Those pale blue eyes pierced her, peered through her skin, through her anatomical bits and pieces, and devoured her soul, kept devouring her, as if she were some tasty tidbit he'd long promised himself and meant to savor to the last teensy crumb. He looked away for the introduction to Lady de Lisle, to greet Violetta and Lissie and arrange their dances, and when one of them spoke to him and it was his turn to reply. Otherwise, she commanded his attention.

Oh, not in a bad way, not at all. After his first sweeping, entirely masculine and wholly appreciative glance over her form — an expected and proper response on his part — after that, his gaze never dropped to her daring gown nor even to her lips. As if — as if it was
her
, her own ordinary, silly little self, who attracted him. As if he didn't see her as an acceptable match, a reasonable dowry, a proper companion, or a suitable mother for his children.

But as if he saw her as
her
. As Beryl.

And as if Beryl was all he hungered for.

A lovely heaviness started low in her belly, heated her core, and flowed out to the rest of her. Of course she'd felt it before and knew what it meant. But along with it flowed a new and fascinating sort of power, a light, floating feeling, calm and confident and serene. After all, to command the attention of a duke — and such a duke, such a man — was no small feat. She'd never felt this sensation with Fitz, had never known with such certainty that he was hers, even if only for an evening — only for two dances.

It didn't matter. She felt it now. His Grace had looked at her
that way,
initiating her into the rôle of a woman with a man, and her world would never be the same again.

The first notes of the lead violinist sang above the crowd's muttering.

"My dances, I believe." His voice was low, soft, inviting. Impossible to overhear. He offered his arm.

While they waited in the dance's line, he spoke of individuals within the crowd around them, Alicia Lethbridge, Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, Deborah Kringle; he delighted her no end by not mentioning the insufferable George Anson, loitering near Deborah as if hoping to regain his former place at her side. His Grace's eyes slid aside briefly each time, as if pointing to the subject of his current poisonless chatter; then he always returned his attention to her, gave her again the full weight of his devouring stare.

It was going to be a wonderful evening.

****

Of course the blaggard proved to be a brilliant dancer, too. Rider, lover, to all reports marksman and whip and swordsman and musician and hunter and pistol shot; of course he had to excel at dancing, as well.

Otherwise his own nightmare wouldn't be complete.

And now it was.

Fitz huddled with his champagne, behind Caird's oversized and be-tartaned shoulder, and wished he could just look away from the excruciating scene. Cumberland and Beryl whirled through the lines, joined hands across their bodies, right to right and left to left, and skipped down the center, without ever looking away from each other's eyes. At the far end, they turned out, performed a mad robin with their neighbors, and settled into the line as the next couple danced out.

Humiliating, it was. Everyone was watching. Tomorrow it would be in all the scandal sheets, discussed in all the coffee houses, picked apart at every tea table. Miss Beryl Wentworth danced with the worst, most destructive rake in Mayfair. And enjoyed herself immensely.

Because clearly she was. Enjoying herself, that was. Not destroyed, at least not yet. Charmed, that was the word. She was charmed, down to her quivering little toes. Anger swirled through Fitz, flavoring the humiliation as some idiot had flavored the champagne with lemon juice and sugar. How could anyone mangle a decent bubbly in such a despicable manner?

How could Beryl dance with such obvious enjoyment with such a despicable rake?

Finally the last couple whirled back into position. The musicians drew out their lingering note as the dancers saluted their partners and everyone applauded. The first two were over.

And the spectacle with it.

Thankfully, he'd planned ahead. Never let it be said that Finian Fitzwilliam wasn't prepared, didn't have a clue, couldn't handle a dicey situation. Beryl was his friend and he wouldn't let her down. He'd rescue her from her own befuddlement and show the
ton
that she did, indeed, possess a modicum of modesty and a drop of decorum.

He'd asked for the next two. And of course, a lady could never refuse a gentleman, as Lissie had reminded them all.

Judicious use of elbows and some fancy footwork got him over to Lady de Lisle's corner before Beryl and Cumberland arrived; no telling what mayhem he left in his wake, but not important, that. Lissie, leaving with Caird — and only an angel would agree to dance with that madman, the way he was dressed; blast it, his hemline swung more than hers — Lissie gave him a lovely smile in passing, and Lady de Lisle's entire well-fed face — well, that wasn't kind of him — Lady de Lisle's comfortably oval face broke into a welcome warm enough for any man.

One would think he had designs on her daughter Violetta or something. Silly thought, that. As if his tender years were appropriate for marriage. Why, he'd barely left school and settled into town.

He made a formal leg over her hand. "My lady, I knew you across the room from the elegance of your — bonnet." Too late, he glanced at the top of her sausagey curls. A lace cap. Well, never mind; she wouldn't. That was all that mattered.

But her smile thinned a hair, so he leaned closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. "What do you think of Beryl gallivanting about with Cumberland, eh?"

Her suspicious glare returned and aimed toward the sauntering couple. The crowd parted before them, closed in behind them, and surreptitious eyes watched them from all about the ballroom, mostly ladies peering provocatively over their fans. Beryl's hand rested on Cumberland's elbow, and they stared only at each other as they crossed the crowded ballroom floor, untouched by the mob. She was saying something, something long and seemingly involved, her eyes bright and her cheeks pink, and he nodded every so often, as if encouraging her to continue.

Such
a romantic picture. Utterly disgusting.

Lady de Lisle sniffed. "In my day, no young lady would dare be seen with such a — a villain. Even if he is a duke." Her lips twitched. "And handsome."

Fitz wanted to groan. Another one falling under the ducal spell. "And rich," he added helpfully.

Her mouth pursed. "And a good dancer." Not quite as reluctant in her praise this time.

Dash it all, could he not coax just one single female into an anti-Cumberland frame of mind? "Lady de Lisle, he's a rake. He ruined Anne Kirkhoven just weeks ago, Dorcas Wentworth-Gower, Beryl's own cousin, before her, Lydia—"

A blistering glance stopped him. "Don't quote names to me, lad. I know all the gossip, and much more intimately than any man possibly could. A rake he might be, aye, and a villain, too. But the woman who nails down his heart, or at least his hand atop the altar, will have made a catch indeed."

Now there was a lovely image, and he'd hand the bride a hammer with glee. So long as it wasn't Beryl.

Then the two stood in front of him. Cumberland's smile cooled, turned arch with lifted eyebrows, but he returned Fitz's bow — and he'd never tell a soul how much that bow hurt, how deeply it scored — with sufficient graciousness to prevent their widening war from attracting more than passing attention. Hopefully. Beryl blinked rapidly, several times, as if awakening from the sweetest of dreams — and everyone in the ballroom had seen the dream and its sweetness, for shame — and the smile she gave him—

—her smile—

—there was something about that smile. Something that tapped at his mind, tugged at his soul, tightened his midsection muscles, and especially when Cumberland took her hand from his arm, clasped it and treated her to another long, lingering look,
holding her hand
—

It was enough to drive a good Irishman to good Irish whiskey.

But first, he had a damsel to save. Even if she'd no idea of her current distress. All right, his. Distress. Not damsel. The damsel wasn't his. The distress was.

Fitz managed a smile. "The next two are mine, I believe."

"Fitz." Beryl's voice was breathy, not quite coherent, her eyelids drooping and heavy. Then she blinked again, waking further, straightened and withdrew her hand from Cumberland's gentle clasp, a tinge of rose invading her cheeks. "Oh, yes, Fitz. The next two. Yes, I do believe they are yours." She started to turn her smile back toward Cumberland. Bidding adieu?

The first drawn-out, quivering note of the fiddle twirled through the ballroom, the most exemplary sound in the world and the best timed. Fitz stepped between Beryl and Cumberland, forcing them apart, shouldering the cretinous creature aside, so that her smile landed on him instead.

And he felt the full weight of it.

How could a smile, a tender little lifting of a lady's lips, hold so very much weight? She looked like—

—like a woman in love.

A woman in love whose glance had been intended to fall upon Cumberland.

The shock froze Fitz inside, froze him in place. Had to show in his expression. She blinked again, her eyes focusing on him more sharply. Confused eyebrows drew together and her lips parted. Her lips—

A quick concatenation of tumbling chords, violins, violincello, viola, and the timbered honking of a double bass deep enough to carry them all: Beryl and he were out of time. And not a moment too soon. Fitz tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and shouldered their way past Cumberland without another glance. His skin seemed to burn beneath his layers of clothing at the touch of that evil man, at Beryl's hand on his arm, and his heart pounded faster than the opening bars of "Miss Moore's Rant" as the musicians got fairly underway. The line formed behind some overdressed female. They were only a few places back; within a minute they'd be dancing.

And he could leave that sensation of horror behind.

"What a marvelous assembly this is."

Hah, and some men claimed women were incapable of appreciating sarcasm's delicacies. But in all honesty Fitz could detect no such undercurrent in her expression. Indeed, her face still glowed with the remains of that smile, and her eyes, glancing about the ballroom without a whit of shame, danced more clearly than the leading couple. If one could deign to describe the motion they performed as dancing; perhaps if one had imbibed sufficient alcohol. The leading couple, he meant, not Beryl's eyes.

He needed to speak with her, rattle some sense into her normally sensible self. But this wasn't the place. Instead, all he could do was distract her.

"Oh, 'tis a fair assembly indeed, made all the more so by your grace and beauty, my girl."

Sheer delight lit her from within, like a lantern glowing on a dark night. "Why, Fitz—"

"But next time, you ought to dress for the occasion."

She froze, eyebrows creeping higher, her eyes widening. Her eyes—

He swallowed a mouthful of unease. Blast the nerves, creeping and crawling in his stomach that way. A man should be able to depend upon his own anatomy when a difficult job had to be done. "You shouldn't just throw on any old rag, you know." A glance at her artfully disarranged coif. "Nor just toss your hair atop your head. There are standards to an assembly such as this."

"Standards?" Her eyes crinkled at the corners and her lips twisted, brows soaring. "
Standards?
Oh, you must be jesting."

Relief swamped him. That was the Beryl he knew, the one he'd played with and teased since they'd met outside the schoolroom and shoved each other into a monstrous mud puddle. Laugher bubbled from him. "Jesting, forsooth." Another pair of dancers swirled out to join the first; two more couples, then it was their turn, and he could relax the rest of the way. "The lass claims I jest." He gave her his sideways grin, the one that used to make her giggle and point at him. The one that invited her to respond with her own sharp wit. A comfortable game, and one they'd played forever.

But instead her lips thinned and she turned pointedly away, a sure sign of her burgeoning temper. What she had against his laughter, he couldn't understand. Recently, every time he'd laughed in her presence, she'd rewarded him with a tantrum. Nothing left for it but to jolly her out of her sulks, the way he used to do. The way she used to love.

"I mean, look at that gown — raggedy, faded, and so worn at the top there's not sufficient left to cover you decently. Surely your papa can afford you a few new gowns, can he not?"

A year ago, she'd have jabbed a stiffened finger into his side and harped on about his decrepit breeches and threadbare tailcoat, last Season's colors and down-at-heel shoes. A year ago, she would have giggled until she leaned against him, helpless and gasping.

A year ago, there hadn't been a blithering duke on the scene.

"This
is
a new gown, Fitz." All humor and enjoyment abandoned her voice, and tension tightened her jaw. Another couple advanced into the dance; one more pair, and there'd be no need of jollying her. Beryl was always right as rain, once her feet were in motion.

"Well, then, I can't understand what ails the mantua-maker. He shorted you on the good muslin, that he did, and substituted something cheap and shiny that's not worth the coppers. Why, someone ought to take his bill and—"

The last couple to them started down the line.

And Beryl whirled and flounced off, back toward Lady de Lisle's corner.

Leaving him standing.

Something she'd done rather often lately, too.

So much for the dancing. Fitz hurried after her, pushing through the sniggering crowd in her wake. He'd have to ensure she didn't start walking home — another trick she'd indulged in too often these last few months. He never asked for these disasters, and she needed to cease and desist in their delivery. What was a man to do when a woman refused to allow him a laugh? Refused to join in a joke? How could he—

Donner und blizten
. The disaster ratcheted up a notch.

For Cumberland still sat beside Lady de Lisle, nodding gently as the good dame rattled on about something. Both Lissie and Violetta had vanished, and neither Caird, Crompton, nor Ponsonby stood near enough to be of service.

Fitz would have to face those dragons alone.

And of course Cumberland rose, all smooth, hovering concern, when Beryl flounced into their presence. Never once did he glance in Fitz's direction; never once did he look away from Beryl's rigidly restrained anger. No, he took her arm, settled her into his own chair, helped her arrange her tangled shawl, listened with the same encouraging nods as she seethed — and Lady de Lisle glanced Fitz's way during that tirade, her lips thinned and her expression exasperated, or contemptuous, or something — and then Cumberland straightened and turned toward the refreshment room.

The man was fetching her an ice. Or tea. Or something. He fussed over Beryl as if she belonged to him, and now he was waiting on her. Not precisely the sort of behavior one expected from a duke, that.

And on the thought, Cumberland's pale glance slid aside, cut through the assembly room's crowd, and pinned Fitz into place. Like a beetle in a collection, helpless against a greater strength and intelligence. As if—

—as if he, the younger son of an earl, was of no account at all, at all.

Broiling with rage, Fitz stalked from the ballroom and into the humid night.