An Exquisite Marriage (4 page)

“I have no way to prevent you.”

“Are you possibly the person who wrote that wonderfully pointed article published in the
Armitage Review
about the natural history of the London starling?”

Helene drew back. No one was supposed to know about that. It hadn't even been a serious piece of scientific literature. It was merely a little satire about the seasonal habits of the denizens of London's ballroom. She'd surprised herself by submitting it for consideration. She'd been stunned beyond words to find it accepted, and paid for.

“Yes, I am,” she said. “Although I would ask you to keep the fact to yourself. The magazine thinks it was written by a male cousin of mine.”
And I might need to do it again.

“I understand fully.”

Yes
, thought Helene.
You would, wouldn't you?
“May I assume that you did write
The Matchless
?”

Miss Sewell inclined her head. “Yes, you may, although I tell you in strictest confidence. The mystery has done wonders for the book's sales.”

“Of course.” If there was one thing Helene could appreciate, it was the practical application of anonymity, especially for a woman.

“But I am disturbing your quiet,” Miss Sewell said. “Accept my apologies.”

“No,” Helene said. “I was leaving anyway. I . . .” She paused and made a decision. “Miss Sewell, may I ask you a question? As a disinterested person?”

Miss Sewell cocked her head, and despite the dim room, Helene had a feeling she was being carefully scrutinized. “You may ask anything you like, Lady Helene. I am entirely at your disposal.”

“I am . . . I find . . . That is . . .” Oh, this was ridiculous. “I do not wish to sound dramatic, but I have been presented with a possibility that might, quite literally, change my life. I assure you I am not in any way overstating the case.”

“I believe you,” Miss Sewell replied calmly.

“The risk is high,” Helene went on. “It would require nothing less than the transformation of not one but three persons on the social scene.”

She had seen the possibility in Adele's notebooks, in all those beautifully, meticulously designed and notated dresses. Everyone knew how society valued appearance over every other virtue. Almost anything was possible, as long as one looked the part. Of course, that was not the only key to success. Connections were required as well, but appearance was the beginning. If that could be managed, then everything else could be made to follow.

She might be able to make the world forget the jilt and the hysteric, and make them see the dignified and competent woman, the lady, one of their own. And that might be leveraged into a way to save her siblings from the ruin into which they had been driven. Of course there would be a price for that, too, but she would pay it willingly.

Or, almost willingly. Lord Windford's blue eyes looked out from her memory, and Helene shivered, just a little.

“You want to change your reputation?” Miss Sewell asked quietly.

“Not just mine,” Helene said. “There are some others. I think I see the way. I think . . . but it involves several serious sorts of risk. If a girl goes forth into society with a too-obvious intent to triumph and she falls, she may never rise again.”

Miss Sewell nodded. “We are not a forgiving world, are we?”

“No,” agreed Helene. Miss Sewell was silent for some little time, and Helene became very conscious of the room's cold seeping through her skin. “I'm sorry,” she said. “It's a ridiculous question, and you are a stranger to me. I should not have asked . . .”

“No, no,” Miss Sewell cut her off. “I am just deciding how to frame my answer. And I want to be sure I understand you correctly. You do not just want greater acceptance for yourself and your friends. You want a triumph?”

“Yes,” Helene said. “That is it exactly.”

Miss Sewell blew out a long sigh. “I admit I have been observing you and your friends with interest over the course of the evening.”

“I had noticed it.” In fact, Madelene had nearly fainted at the thought of being watched by a lady novelist.

“If it was anyone else who asked this question, I would suggest to them that they be content with a modest success, or reformation. But my instinct tells me, Lady Helene, that you might just be able to run the entire race.”

“Your instinct and the natural history of the London starling?”

“Just so.” Miss Sewell laughed, but she quickly fell silent again. When she spoke again, her voice was very soft and entirely serious. “Some time ago, Lady Helene, I was offered the opportunity to transform my own life. I refused the chance, because I was afraid.”

Helene knew she was staring. This was a woman who defied the world's opinion by simply existing. What could possibly frighten her?

And why was Helene suddenly thinking of Lord Windford again?

“Therefore,” Miss Sewell went on, “you may believe me when I say to you that if you do not try, it will be much worse than if you try and fail, because you will always be wondering, and yearning, after what might have been.”

“Thank you,” said Helene.

Miss Sewell inclined her head. “I do hope, Lady Helene, whatever you decide, you will let me know how the game plays out, and . . .” She paused. “And although I am a stranger, I hope that if there is anything I can do to help, you will remember me.”

“I believe I can safely promise to do so, Miss Sewell.”

“Then I will leave you to your planning and wish you and your friends the very best of luck.”

She curtsied again and left the library, closing the door softly behind herself. Helene turned back toward the window and stared out at the starlit snow for a very long time.

Bassett Assembly Rooms

London, April 1818

Helene Fitzgerald stood beside the wall and surveyed the crowded ballroom with a feeling of immense satisfaction. Three months had passed since the fateful New Year's Ball at Windford Park. Three months of planning, of hoping and scheming on the part of herself, Lady Adele, and Madelene Valmeyer, and the woman who was now their friend and chaperone, Miss Deborah Sewell. After three months of anticipation, the sleepless nights and the near brushes with disaster, here they all stood, on the brink of the new London season, and everything was going so perfectly that Helene scarcely dared believe it was happening at all.

“Lady Helene, how are you? I trust you are enjoying yourself.” Mrs. Wrexford, whose party this was, glided up to her. “I must compliment you on your dress. It is exquisite.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wrexford. It is one of Lady Adele's design.”

Tonight, in the place of her plain gray satin, Helene wore a sparkling silver sheath modeled after a classical Grecian gown. Trimmed in cut glass beads, it was both simple and striking.

Mrs. Wrexford leaned close and raised her fan to speak confidentially. “You three have become quite the belles of my little ball. Everyone is absolutely buzzing about you.” She waved her hand about the room. As she did, several people nodded in Helene's direction and smiled. She saw Adele in the middle of a positive crowd of gentlemen, and even Madelene had several matrons and daughters standing with her, all talking and smiling.

“It is a new season, ma'am,” murmured Helene as she exchanged smiles and nods. “Everything changes.”

“From that look on your face, I suspect that the changes have only just begun?”

Helene confined herself to a satisfied smile and was rewarded by an answering gleam in her hostess's eye. “Well, well,” said Mrs. Wrexford. “I believe shall look forward to observing your progress.” She paused. “I trust your mother is not unwell? I understand Deborah Sewell is chaperoning both you and Lady Adele this evening?”

“And Miss Valmeyer, yes. My mother's health, unfortunately, does not permit her to be here this evening.” The polite lie flowed easily from Helene. As well it should. She had been uttering it for at least three years. “Shall I tender her your regards?”

“Please do,” said Mrs. Wrexford, politely and insincerely. “Now, I must circulate. Perhaps you will do me the favor of calling on me one day?”

Helene murmured her promise that she would. She watched as Mrs. Wrexford left to go greet some other acquaintances and, it was to be hoped, mention to them what a polite and decorous young woman Helene Fitzgerald was proving to be.

Helene turned away, looking for something else to concentrate on. She spied Madelene and Adele standing at the edge of the dance floor and hurried over to them as quickly as her skirts, the crowd, and her dignity allowed. That is to say, at a fairly sedate and mildly frustrated saunter.

“How are you, Madelene?” Helene asked as soon as she was close enough. Helene and Adele between them had agreed to take turns being Madelene's companion this evening, in case she should fall prey to one of her spells of anxiety. She seemed fine at this moment. In fact, her cheeks were pink and her eyes were shining with delighted surprise.

“I'm . . . well,” she said brightly. “Everyone is being so kind. I've had three invitations to call, and look.” She held up her dance card. “I've only two waltzes left!”

“It's marvelous!” Adele cried. In her daring dress of red and cream with its low waist and full skirt, Adele looked like a queen from another age. “I've danced every dance, and I've had to turn down at least three gentlemen. I'm practically dizzy!”

“All this over a new dress,” murmured Madelene, fingering her straight skirt of champagne silk and sparkling beadwork.

“It's not the dress. It's the young lady in it.” Miss Sewell glided up behind them. The morning after they held their confidential talk in the Windford library, Miss Sewell had accepted the task of being the girls' chaperone for the season. Helene didn't know how they would ever begin to repay her. Without her help, none of this would have been possible. Adele might fret that they were only being observed so they could be turned into material for a new fashionable novel, but Helene did not believe it.

“Well, I never would have dared to even try change if it wasn't for the three of you,” Adele said.

“Just us?” smiled Miss Sewell. “Are you sure we shouldn't be sharing the credit with someone else?” She let her lazy and knowing gaze drift to the balcony, where a tall young man with very black hair and impeccable evening dress leaned indolently against a pillar and watched them.

Adele blushed a shade of red almost as deep as the color of her skirt panels.

“We have all worked together,” said Helene. “And we are making a fine impression. But this is only the opening of the season,” she went on, to herself as much as to her friends. “We will have to solidify this success, and that will take a great deal more work.”

Adele rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, we all know that, but for tonight, Helene, let's . . . Oh Lord.” Adele blanched. “Here comes Patience, and Marcus.”

“Courage,” murmured Miss Sewell, but for a moment, Helene could not tell whether she was talking to Adele or Helene herself.

“This is what you've been up to!” cried Lady Patience. Adele's younger sister had dressed with her customary flare, in a very fine gown of pale blue and white with tiers of beaded lace about the hem. Her gloves had been dyed to match. The splendid effect, though, was rather spoiled by her planting both hands on her hips and glowering at her sister. “Wait until Aunt Kearsely sees that dress!”

“Hello, Lady Patience, Lord Windford,” said Helene. “Lord Windford, you know Miss Sewell, do you not?”

“How do you do?” Miss Sewell made her curtsy. “How lovely to see you again, Lady Patience. What a beautiful gown you have. You must tell me the name of your modiste.”

Helene glanced at Lord Windford. His mouth twitched. He was trying to frown, she thought. But Miss Sewell's adroit deflection of Patience's little rant was evidently making that difficult.

As Helene studied the Duke of Windford's expressive face, she was aware of a sort of sparkling warmth spreading down through her body. Odd. Yes, she'd thought of him several times over the course of the little season. Yes, she'd hoped for a chance to speak with him again. And yes, she was quite aware he was a handsome man. She'd known that since her meeting with him in his library.

This time, though, Helene was acutely aware of Windford's deep-set blue eyes, and the way his dark golden hair suited his bronzed complexion. She'd seen the duke in evening dress before and thought it looked very well on him. Now, she noted how his height and broad shoulders made the plain black coat look distinguished, and how his legs had an excellent shape that was both highlighted and complimented by white silk breeches and stockings.

Helene quickly directed her gaze to the wider ballroom before anyone could notice she was staring at Lord Windford's legs. Because of this, she was the first of the little conversational grouping to see Mr. Chute sauntering through the crowd. A dandy of the Brummel school, his black coat was immaculate, and his cravat was a fantasy of spotless white waves and folds.

“Windford!” Mr. Chute cried. “How d'ye do? Pretty little party, ain't it? But I've got a word for you. Let me down, you have.”

Lord Windford arched his brows. “I have? How?”

“You haven't introduced me to your charming sister.”

Patience pulled herself up and prepared to be flirtatious, but only for a moment, because Mr. Chute turned unmistakably toward Lady Adele.

Adele smiled. Adele curtsied. Adele accepted Mr. Chute's invitation for this dance and sailed away.

Patience stomped one slippered foot and did not so much sail away as stalk in the manner of a disappointed cat.

Fans were very convenient items, mused Helene. They were most useful, for instance, when one needed to hide an entirely inappropriate smile. Lord Windford, being a gentleman, was reduced to scrubbing at his face.

Deborah Sewell did not bother with either gesture, neither did she seem inclined to worry overmuch about her duties as chaperone.

“Oh, there is my friend Mister Collins,” she said breezily. “Madelene, I particularly wanted to introduce you to him. If you'll excuse us, Your Grace? Lady Helene?” Miss Sewell gave the briefest of curtsies, took Madelene's arm, and breezed away, leaving Helene standing alone with Lord Windford.

Hmm. I will need to have a word with Miss Sewell.

“We are deserted, it seems,” remarked Windford.

“So it seems.” Helene fluttered her so-useful her fan to cover the brief silence. “How are you enjoying yourself, Lord Windford?”

“Not half as well as you and Adele, but rather more than Patience, I think.” He paused. “This transformation is your doing?”

“Adele's transformation is Adele's doing. I trust, however, you will not disapprove.”

“It doesn't matter whether I do or not.”

“Why not? You're her brother.”

He shrugged. “Managing the females of my household is my aunt's business. I rely on her to look out for them. I have enough other concerns.”

“Of course,” Helene replied in her very driest tones. “You must look after your estate's business and leave the dresses and so forth to the flighty females?”

Windford let his gaze drift, the universal signal among the haut ton for disapproval. “Lady Helene, I think we had best drop that subject, don't you?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Helene curtsied. “Just as you say. Shall I talk about the dresses, as it is my approved role?”

He lowered his frowning blue gaze toward her. “Perhaps you should. Those you seem to know something about.”

It was a direct hit, but Helene was not ready to concede the point. “Did you know there are some truly complex geometries involved in the design of a skirt? For instance . . .”

Helene never had the opportunity to finish. Instead, Lord Windford leaned close and murmured in her ear, “Lady Helene, I find I must ask for a favor. Would you dance with me?”

The brush of his breath against her ear was causing a remarkable series of flutterings in the vicinity of her stomach. It took Helene a moment to regain her breath and glance about the room. It took less than a heartbeat to pick out Mrs. Pollerton, who was attempting to make a beeline through the crowd.

“Please,” he whispered urgently. “Save my life.”

He was so disconcertingly close that Helene could see the candlelight caught in his deep blue eyes. She meant to answer; she was sure she did. What happened, though, was she mutely held out her hand. This made him smile and tuck her hand into the crook of his arm.

Her heart thumped unsteadily.

How deeply provoking.

***

This might have been a bad idea.

Marcus struggled to keep that thought from showing in his expression as he led Lady Helene onto the dance floor. Her expression had gone from defiant to decidedly mulish.

He lifted his arms to the proper frame and let her step between them, as was polite. She laid her hand on his shoulder and rested her other arm on his. Her expression remained bland, even bored. Doubtlessly he would pay for his earlier remarks with an entire dance filled with sniping commentary, and possibly stepped-on toes. Well, sniping with Lady Helene would be better than ten minutes of another woman's blushes and giggles.

That, Marcus realized, was not only true, it was rather profoundly disturbing.

The music rose. Marcus caught the rhythm and prepared to have to wrench Lady Helene about. Given her reputation, she probably was one of those girls who always tried to lead. But he was wrong. Lady Helene fell lightly into step with him and turned easily. She did not glance down at their feet as uncertain and unpracticed dancers did. Indeed, she did not look away at all. Not that she was exactly looking at him. As the music wrapped around them, her eyes grew distant. Her face softened, her form . . . her form relaxed as they moved and they turned.

Marcus felt himself begin to relax as well. It had been a very long time since dancing had been anything but a chore. The two of them, though, moved together naturally, smoothly. She responded to the slightest change of pressure from his hand. With such a partner, he could let himself enjoy the music and the motion and forget the rigors of navigating the dance floor.

“We have upset Mrs. Pollerton,” murmured Helene.

“Good.”

“Normally, I might agree, but I'm afraid I need her.”

“You need her?” Marcus's eyebrows lifted. “What for?”

“She's on the Committee for the Improvement of Conditions for Mothers and Infants. I was particularly hoping to talk with her about the importance of education for the mothers as well as for their children.”

“And why should our dancing interfere with that?”

Helene's smile suggested she was charmed by his naiveté. “If I become a rival to her daughter, she's hardly likely to listen to what I have to say.”

“One dance and either you or she will think there's rivalry?”

“I do not think it. I observe it,” replied Lady Helene. “There is a natural order to the workings of a ballroom. I have taken care to familiarize myself with it.” She looked up into his face. “And you are about to remark on what a strange girl I am.”

“I was, but now I don't believe I will give you the satisfaction.”

She fixed her amber gaze on him. He'd never seen eyes like hers—they were gold and brown and silver, all mixed together into a color that was unique. They were lively, intense, and shining. She had so much life in her. So much energy. He could feel it now, as they turned and they stepped.