A Season for Love (2 page)

Isabella tossed her mane of pale blonde hair behind her and snatched away the envelope. “It depends on when it is, goose.” She scanned the invitation quickly and her violet eyes widened. “It is a week from this Saturday.”

Worry showed in Julianna’s more cornflower-colored eyes. “We have only one seamstress here at the estate. She will never be able to get two—” her gaze shifted to Elizabeth who was quietly working on her embroidery in the solar window—“or three gowns done in that time.”

“Well, she will simply have to work her fingers to the bone then,” Isabella answered. “Elizabeth can wear one of my other gowns.”

Elizabeth looked up from her work. “Does the invitation include me?”

“It says ‘family’,” Julianna answered. “I am sure Papa is not going to hide you away as a poor relation—oh!” Her hand flew to cover her mouth. “I am sorry. I did not mean to imply
—”

“Do you suppose the duke’s son has returned from the Continent?” Isabella interrupted.

“Which one?” Julianna asked.

“The duke’s heir, of course, the Marquess of Bingington. I do so wish to see him before we move to Town and the Season starts. Every debutante will be throwing herself at him and Papa thinks we would suit.”

“I hardly remember him,” Julianna replied, “but I think his brother, Edward, had a
tendre
for you. I remember several years ago he offered to brush the dust off your skirt at a picnic.”

“Only because he was an incorrigible scapegrace even then.” Isabella tried to sound haughty, but she blushed a little. “I certainly did not allow it.”

Julianna’s eyes widened. “Of course not! Papa would have an apoplexy if he had known!”

“Yes, well. Edward proved himself to be quite the rake two years ago, ruining that Johnson girl’s reputation and then not offering to marry her.”

Julianna nodded. “Not even when her brother called him out.”

“Dueling is illegal. The duke did the best thing by sending Edward to Italy.”

“Are you defending him?”

“Certainly not!” Isabella snapped. “It is just that the Johnson girl was somewhat of a hoyden. No doubt she thought to entrap Edward into marriage.”

“Well,” Julianna sighed, “it turned out to be best for her. She managed to marry a viscount a year later. Edward would be safe if he came home.”

“But he would not have a title.”

Elizabeth turned back to her embroidery as Isabella prattled on about the accomplishments of the duke’s son, the Marquis of Bingington, who’d distinguished himself in the Peninsular War fighting with Kempt’s Brigade under the command of Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington. The girls started giggling as they also exchanged bits of gossip and scandal they’d heard about Edward’s escapades in Italy. Apparently, the duke’s second son was something of a rake wherever he went.

She smiled, thinking of Darian and how nice and helpful he’d been. The earl had sent a carriage to look for her the day she landed in the puddle and they’d been met on the road. She’d had to take only one look at the coachman’s raised eyebrow to know how totally improper her seating arrangement on the horse was and had hastily slipped down,  hopping on one foot until Darian shook his head and carried her to the waiting curricle. Darian offered to escort the buggy home, but Elizabeth thanked him and said it wasn’t necessary. She sighed, wondering if she would get a glimpse of him at the ball. Probably not. Soldiers who were sons of servants—albeit it highly placed ones—wouldn’t be putting in appearances at a peerage ball.

“Ouch!” She sucked the tiny drop of blood from her fingertip where she’d poked herself. Embroidery was nothing she enjoyed doing, but Aunt Catherine had frowned upon learning she’d taken out one of the horses. In order to avoid being banned from the stables and the horses she loved—since she had to keep off her foot anyhow—she’d quickly volunteered to work on an altar cloth for the church.

“Are you hurt?” Julianna asked.

“Do not be silly,” Isabella said. “Elizabeth is hardly going to become a watering pot over a tiny prick in her finger.”

As the girls turned back to discussing the delicious on-dits concerning the now even more devastating Lord Bingington, she smiled a little. Isabella was ten-and-seven and Julianna a year younger. They were both looking forward to the Season in Town, where a possible suitor might become a betrothed. Both of them were pretty—Isabella, with her pale silvery hair and violet eyes, always attracted attention while Julianna, with bouncy golden curls and bright, blue eyes, quickly became friends with everyone.
             

Elizabeth swept back a strand of her own chestnut brown hair. Her uncle had told her she would be attending at the balls as well, but at two-and-twenty, she knew she was almost classified as being put on the shelf as a spinster. She wasn’t looking forward to a Season. Her father’s parish had been on the outskirts of Mayfair and she was familiar with the
ton’s
unwritten rules and expectations. Even if the earl were to provide a small dowry, which he’d never mentioned, she would hardly be a suitable match for any of the young swains hoping to better themselves through marriage
.

The most she could hope for was to marry a son of a merchant or possibly a tenant farmer…or a soldier? She smiled. Darian would do very nicely. A professional soldier was nothing to be ashamed of and yet, without peerage, he wouldn’t reach too high. Perhaps she should ask her uncle about it.

If only she could catch a glimpse of Darian when she went to the ball.

* * * *

“Now remember,” Isabella said to Juliana as they alighted from the carriage the night of the ball, “a left-hand flutter with your fan means, ‘come here’ and the a right-hand flutter is a flirty, ‘You are too bold.’  And, for Heaven’s sake, do not close your fan and tap your face with it!”

Julianna rolled her eyes and then giggled. “Lud! I certainly will not tell a man I love him with a fan gesture.”

“And also remember,” Isabella continued, “do not get coquettish when we are introduced to Lord Bingington. If he is to be
my
husband, it will not do to have my sister throwing herself at him.” She smoothed the skirt of the watered-silk lavender gown that made her eyes look even more brilliantly purple. “How do I look?”

“Like a future marchioness.” Julianna stuck out her tongue at her sister. “Maybe Lord Bingington will be gray-headed and balding. He
is
almost thirty.”

Elizabeth smiled at that as she followed the girls up the stairs to the massive double-doors of the main entrance. Thirty probably did seem old to them although Isabella had dwelt on Lord Bingington’s title of Marquess—and her future title—once they’d learned the duke’s son was indeed back from the Continent. The earl even made a trip to the duke’s estate—ostensibly to discuss the breeding of one of his Andalusians—but Elizabeth knew from the excited whispers and giggles when he’d returned, that he’d also started the fly buzzing in the duke’s ear about a possible match.

Well, at least Elizabeth didn’t need to be concerned about making a wealthy connection. In fact, since she wouldn’t suit a member of the peerage, she could actually relax at these events. She glanced behind her, eyes sweeping the courtyard, but of course, Darian wasn’t there. He was probably with the other guardsmen in their quarters behind the stables.

A waiting maid took their wraps as they entered and the earl gave his card to the butler who gestured to the short receiving line.

William Armstrong, the Duke of Stafford, was a striking man. Although in his mid-fifties, his hair was still dark and he stood with the ramrod-straight back of the colonel he’d once been. Beside him, his petite wife looked like a delicate faerie with hair the color of corn-silk and a gown that shimmered in iridescent colors of greens and blues. His son was nowhere to be seen.

“Your Graces.” Elizabeth dropped a curtsey when her name was announced.

The duchess inclined her head. “We heard of your parents’ terrible misfortune and offer our condolences.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth said. “It was kind of Uncle James to take me in.”

“But of course he would,” the duchess replied.

The duke’s gaze glanced over her and then turned to Isabella. A look of approval crossed his face. “My son, it seems, is quite inexcusably tardy this evening; however… Oh, here he comes now. Lady Isabella, Lady Juliana, Miss Elizabeth: may I present my son, the Marquess of Bingington?”

Elizabeth’s feet felt like they were bolted to the floor and her legs felt heavy as iron, but her head felt strangely light, as if not attached to the rest of her.

The duke’s heir was Darian.

She managed a stiff curtsey, avoiding looking at his face. “My lord,” she said and then the room began to sway.

Chapter Two

Darian leapt forward as Elizabeth tumbled toward the floor. He wrapped one arm around her waist, supporting her, and gently pushed her head down. “Take some deep breaths,” he said.

She hung on to his arm and inhaled and exhaled slowly. After a few minutes, she raised her head, hoping she didn’t look as embarrassed as she felt. “I am fine now. I am  not sure what happened.”

“You nearly fainted, my dear,” the duchess said. “Perhaps you should lie down and rest.” Before Elizabeth could protest, the duchess summoned a maid and a footman to escort Elizabeth to an upstairs chamber.

Darian watched her leave, wondering what had caused the color to drain from her face so suddenly. He didn’t think Elizabeth was the swooning type, given that she’d taken a tumble from her horse without so much as a whimper. Perhaps she was more fragile than she looked. She’d been light as a feather in his arms that day…and soft when she’d leaned over, the undersides of her breasts settling on his arm. Very soft.

“I am sure Elizabeth will be fine,” Isabella said by his side.

He looked down at her. When he left to join Wellesley in Iberia at the beginning of the Peninsular War, Isabella had been a child of…ten?...maybe eleven? She’d been such a dainty child, managing to keep immaculately clean even when the rest of the children were sweaty, with grass or dirt stains on their clothes. He remembered teasing her about it once and she’d given him the most reproachful look. Somewhat the same way she was looking at him now. He couldn’t deny that she’d turned into a stunning beauty with her delicate, heart-shaped face, pale hair, and deep violet eyes. So different from Elizabeth’s thick, lush, mahogany-colored hair and her unusual grey eyes, luminescent as pearls.

“Have you forgotten your manners, Darian? I am sure Lady Isabella would enjoy the quadrille that is beginning,” his mother said.

“How rude of me.” Darian automatically bowed. “Would you care to dance, Lady Isabella?”

“Please call me Isabella.” She placed her hand on his arm and he led her to the floor to join the set.

He watched as she laughed and flitted from one man to another as lightly as a butterfly. Slightly flirtatious, but not enough to upset their female partners. Fully confident and as much at ease as any hostess would be.

Darian glanced across the room to where his father stood, engaged in conversation with the earl. The duke had already told him that Dewberry suggested a marriage alliance with Isabella. And he knew, that as eldest son and heir to the duchy, he would be expected to marry and produce children. He had avoided that responsibility for as long as he could, staying on the Continent to fight alongside Wellington. With the Vitoria breakthrough of French power in Spain a year ago, Wellington had tried to send him back to England. “To do his other duty,” the general had said. Darian had managed to put in another year of service.

It wasn’t that he was opposed to marriage exactly. What he didn’t like was the false pretenses that were so a part of the
ton
society. Marriages were far too often made for political or financial reasons and both husbands and wives took lovers. That wasn’t what Darian wanted. He wanted a woman that enjoyed country life more than Town and actually was interested in something besides fashion and parties.

Perhaps someone who took a horse out by herself without an escort and didn’t caterwaul when she landed in a mud puddle?

He sighed inwardly as Isabella twirled back to him to complete the dance pattern. He envied his younger brother, Edward. If he were a second son, he could look for love. As a future duke, he was expected to wed within the peerage. He really dreaded the Season ahead with all the ninnyhammers bibblebabbling around him like so many white-clothed moths. Silly, giggling girls weren’t what he needed after seeing death and destruction for the past six years—nor after warming the bed of so many lonely widows.

“A farthing for your thoughts?” Isabella said.

He shook his head. “Just thinking about being back in England.”

She swept her lashes down and then looked up at him. “I would like to hear about your plans.”

“In due time you shall,” he replied with a smile.

“I am looking forward to it.”

Darian glanced at his father again. His mother now stood by his side. They’d always seemed happy and Darian knew their marriage had been arranged. It could work. Dewberry was an influential MP and their properties adjoined. Alliances had been made for less. And he’d known Isabella since she was a child. Certainly, she was a beautiful woman.