Corey McFadden (9 page)

* * * *

“I’m terribly warm, Julian. I do believe I might faint from the heat. Perhaps we could take a stroll on the terrace?” Caroline did look flushed from their waltz, which had gone on interminably, Julian thought.

“Of course. Would you care for some punch?”

Caroline cast a quick glance over to the punch bowl and shook her head. “No, thank you. Mama is still there, and I’ve no wish to be detained.”

Blessing her discretion, he steered her to the large French doors that gave out onto the terrace, now crowded with gentlemen and ladies of the same mind and temperature. Glancing back over to the corner before he stepped out, Julian noted that Miss Quinn still sat with Sir Richard, ripe now, no doubt, for rescue. He need only shake himself loose of Caroline, who, unfortunately, clung rather tightly to his arm. What was it she’d been going on about earlier? Something about Ledbetter. He peered up and down the terrace, cursing his poor eyesight. While his vision was certainly better than Miss Quinn’s—if her spectacles were any measure—it was nevertheless difficult for him to make out much more than forms and colors out here in the dark.

At least it was cooler. A fresh breeze blew across his face.

“Beautiful evening, isn’t it, Julian?” Caroline said.

“Indeed,” he replied. Now where might Ledbetter be? If he could spot the young man, he might pass Caroline off to him. Tired of being chastised, he had attempted, rather unsuccessfully, he knew, to be responsive to Caroline’s conversation, but had found it lacking in depth and interest. Now that he thought of it, it had all been about her. Her country cousin, on the other hand, was most entertaining, indeed.

“Julian, have you listened to a word I’ve said all evening?”

“Of course I have, Caroline. You know I dote on your every utterance.” No shapes to his left looked promisingly Ledbetterish. He turned to his right.

“Something is preoccupying you this evening,” she went on, touching his chin playfully with her fan. God, how he loathed fans.

“I am merely speechless in the face of your beauty, Caroline.” There! That had to be Ledbetter, off toward the right, near the end of the terrace. “Let’s stroll over this way. It’s less crowded.”

He saw the very moment Ledbetter spotted them, from the very animation that suffused the young man’s face, not, Julian trusted, at the sight of his own. Indeed, as they drew closer, he could see enough to know that the young man only had eyes for Caroline, who was desperately trying to tug him off in another direction. But this was no time to be coy, not with poor Miss Elspeth Quinn languishing in corners under the beady black eye of that old crow, Sommers.

“Julian! Let’s go back in,” Caroline hissed in his ear, coming to a dead stop like a mule.

No, you don’t, my girl, Julian thought. “Oh, let’s put the poor man out of his misery, Caroline. I do believe you’ve made him suffer enough. Mr. Ledbetter!” he called out. “I fear I have inadvertently run afoul of the dance card, leaving poor Miss Quinn stuck with me.” The young man virtually sprinted the short distance between them.

“Damn you, Julian!” Caroline snapped, barely audibly.

“Oh, Miss Quinn!” panted the young puppy. “I do hope I can have the next dance.”

“Well, I leave you in good hands, Miss Quinn,” said Julian, making an elaborate leg. “Thank you so much for our dance.” His eyesight was not so poor that he couldn’t see her glaring balefully at him as he turned to beat a hasty retreat.

* * * *

This evening was interminable! Hot, odorous, perfectly foul! Elspeth did not know quite what she had expected of this, her first evening among the
ton
, but certainly it was not to be trapped over in this corner with this poor old gentleman who couldn’t hear very well, had little of interest to say, and seemed not the least interested in anything she had to say. Aunt Bettina had deposited her firmly in this chair, hissing firm instructions that she was to keep Sir Richard company and not stir from the spot. No one else even so much as glanced their way. Certainly Caroline was not so restricted. Around and around the floor whirled the pink satin, in the arms of Mr. Thorpe. It was all Elspeth could do not to stare. Actually, she did stare, peering every time they waltzed into her line of vision. There was no mistaking that he cut a dashing figure. Unlike most of the young men here, he eschewed the more violent color combinations. Buff-colored superfine breeches clung like skin to his muscled thighs, and his plain dark maroon jacket, broad at the shoulders and narrow at the waist, suggested a powerful man at ease with himself. Everything else he wore was pristine white, from the stockings covering a well-turned calf, to the neckcloth of impossible twists and foldings.

“Too warm for dancing, wouldn’t you say, Miss Quinn?” wheezed Sir Richard, too close to her ear.

“It is warm, yes, sir,” replied Elspeth absently. But warm or not, she would love to be whirling round and round in the arms of Mr. Thorpe.

“Don’t approve of all this waltzing. It’s indecent, that what it is. Don’t you agree, Miss Quinn?”

“Well, I suppose if Lady Dowling approves, it isn’t for me to gainsay her,” said Elspeth, deliberately noncommittal. She now knew better than to contradict Sir Richard on any point whatsoever. He did not take that well, got all prickly and pruney. Best just to be mildly agreeable.

“Quite right. You young gels have entirely too many opinions these days. Most unseemly.”

“Yes, sir,” Elspeth said with a sigh. Now the music had stopped and the room was abuzz with vivacious voices. Elspeth cast her glance about—the pink satin was hard to miss—there! With a stab of disappointment, Elspeth saw Mr. Thorpe leading her cousin out to the terrace. For a romantic interlude, of course. What on earth was the matter with her? Mooning about over a god of a man, all but declared for her cousin, and far, far above the likes of her even if he were not spoken for. No doubt, he thought Elspeth a clumsy curiosity, an interesting oddity, suitable to make sport of, and no more. Well, she had wished for a taste of the
ton
, and perhaps a mildly broken heart was a part of it.

“Tell me, Miss Quinn. Do you play whist?" Sir Richard asked, a trifle avidly.

“Well, I do, sir, but rather badly, and I’ve no money to wager.”

“Ah,” was all he said, sounding a bit disappointed. Surely he had not intended to take her money in a game? They sat in silence for a moment, Elspeth willing the orchestra to take up another tune quickly so that she needn’t make further conversation. She had learned Sir Richard couldn’t hear well with music playing. She glanced longingly at the fan that dangled uselessly from her wrist, wishing she could use it to cool herself. But Aunt Bettina had declared quite firmly that she was not to so much as open it in public, that the use of fans was a delicate and subtle art of communication, and that Elspeth would simply embarrass herself with her awkward handling. And here all these years she’d thought a fan was used to waft a cooling breeze to one’s face.

“May I have the pleasure of this next dance, Miss Quinn?” came a voice at her elbow. His voice. Her heart started to beat a little faster.

“But I—” she started, shaking her head.

“I’ll teach it to you,” he interrupted hurriedly, holding out his gloved hand.

She took it, and turned to excuse herself to the scowling Sir Richard, who barely nodded at her.

“Actually, this will be a quadrille,” he remarked, leading her away. “I detest quadrilles. Would you care for a stroll on the terrace? It’s quite pleasant outside, and quite crowded, too, if you’re still worried about your reputation.”

“Oh, yes, that would be lovely. It’s stifling inside,” she replied, smiling up at him. Her heart was inexplicably beating a little tattoo inside her chest. They made their way to the large open doors. Out of the corner of her eye Elspeth noted the pink satin-clad form of her cousin, standing ready for the opening promenade across from Mr. Ledbetter. She hoped Caroline would not begrudge her a few moments with Mr. Thorpe, as she was dancing with someone else herself.

It was heaven outside, where a cool breeze blew across her cheeks. The air was fresh, scented with roses and lilacs, such a welcome change from the fusty Sir Richard and the crowded, hot ballroom. Mr. Thorpe led her over to the balustrade, away from the long French windows that cast a golden glow across the terrace. A number of couples made their way inside as the orchestra signaled that the quadrille would soon begin. She and Mr. Thorpe stood together in the cool dark, not touching, leaning on the elaborately molded railing, looking out over the small garden that separated Lady Dowling’s home from the grand edifice next to it. Elspeth was aware that she was supposed to think of something brilliant to say. Something that would have him laughing and admiring her wit. Nothing came to mind, of course. The man had obviously kindly rescued her from the moldering Sir Richard, only to find that she and the old goat were a perfect pair.

“It would appear to me that you have been deliberately marooned with Sir Richard, Miss Quinn. Not once, but twice this evening. Why would your aunt abandon such a lovely young woman to the likes of that poor old man?”

“Oh, well, of course, I’m not really lovely, and I’m not at all young, as I am told several times a day.” Elspeth knew she was not playing the game, but could not bother to adopt the light and bantering tone so favored by the
ton
. It sounded so artful, somehow. Besides, she had best let him understand that she would brook no empty compliments. Even such a mindless one as calling her lovely made her heart flutter, and she did not really wish to find herself head over heels with this rather elegant gentleman, obviously as far above her as the Prince of Wales himself. Besides, she had better put him off as soon as possible, so that she could not be accused of encouraging his attentions by her aunt, who, after all, reminded her repeatedly that she only had Elspeth’s best interests at heart.

“Well, if you are fishing for compliments, Miss Quinn, I shall give you up as quite as unoriginal as all the other demoiselles here this evening,” he replied. “And here I thought you might be different.”

“I never fish for compliments, sir,” she remarked huffily. “Do you not have eyes in your head? All you need do is look around you to see that the ‘demoiselles’ to whom you refer are all far more suited to this occasion than I am. Why, their attire alone puts them well beyond my sphere.”

“As to that, Miss Quinn, I suppose you would slap my face if I were to suggest that the—ah—least—ah— adorned statue by Praxiteles is far more beautiful in its simplicity than any lady ever painted in all her excessive finery by Watteau or Fragonard.”

“I must assume, then, that naked Greek statuary is another topic that is out of bounds between a lady and a gentleman, sir?” she retorted with a rueful laugh. She would so love a rousing discussion on the splendors of ancient sculpture.

“How impressive, Miss Quinn,” he said, smiling warmly at her. “I should not think there are as many as a half dozen young ladies in the room who would recognize the name of the finest Greek sculptor.” His smile made her heart skip another beat, and she turned her gaze away. Best not to let him think she was smitten. It would give them all the more to tease her about when the game was done.

“Then that should prove to you that I’m not young,” she said, still simmering over the ‘fishing for compliments’ accusation.

“‘How old are you, then?” he asked baldly. There was a wicked gleam in his eye, as if he knew he tread dangerously here, at least as far as the
ton
would have it. Elspeth knew enough to know that the specifics of a lady’s age were never discussed openly.

“Twenty-three,” she replied, just as boldly. What was so blessed old about twenty-three, anyway?

“Ah, no wonder you recognized Praxiteles. He was a contemporary of yours, then.”

In spite of herself, she giggled. “I suppose I could make a remark along the lines of ‘who did you think posed for all those statues,’ but I can’t risk your repeating it to Thomas and Robert. I should have to leave town.”

“And where would you go if you did leave town, Miss Quinn? Everyone tells me you are from the country, but no one seems to know what country that would be.”

“Oh, my family lives in Shropshire, sir.”

“Well, then, tell me about Shropshire, Miss Quinn. Where is your home?”

Now there was a subject to bore the feathers off a duck! What on earth could she find to say to this worldly, magnificent gentleman about Weston-under-Lizard, a village that only still existed largely because of its proximity to the network of canals in Shropshire and to Market Drayton, a town gaining in popularity as the birthplace of Robert Clive, or Clive of India, as he had come to be known.

“I’m afraid you’ll find my recitation about my home exceedingly trifling and dull, Mr. Thorpe.”

“Ah, Miss Quinn, again you allow me to understand that I present myself as a shallow, self-absorbed fellow. Indeed, I find nothing the least bit trifling or dull about you.”

Did he mock her again? Was she so much the rustic, so out-of-step with the glittering
ton
that she was curiously entertaining? She turned to look at him, only to find that in the dim light she could hardly make out his features. How could she know if he was making sport of her if she couldn’t see his face? “Would you mind terribly if I put on my spectacles, sir?” she asked. “I find it difficult to converse with dark blurs.”

“As do I, ma’am. You may wear yours if I may wear my own.” Without further remark he reached into his waistcoat pocket and settled them on his aquiline nose. She fished hers from her reticule and, her own now similarly situated, they peered carefully at one another.

“You are even more beautiful than I realized,” he said softly.

Her heart knocked about a bit in her chest. Then someone’s laughter rang out, reminding her of the game that was played among the ‘Quality.’ “You flatter me, sir,” she said simply, looking away. “It’s not a good idea, really. I am woefully ill-used to such remarks and quite apt to take you far too seriously.”

Her white-gloved hand lay on the railing of the balustrade. She started when his hand, discreetly gloved, of course, covered her own, but she did not draw it away. “I am guilty of the foolish repartee of the
beau monde
, Miss Quinn. But not with you. There is something about you that calls out the better in me—such as it is, of course,” he added.