Cross the Ocean (9 page)

“Actually I will accept your apology,” Miss Finch said from the darkness. “Not because your behavior has changed but because of how you handled Melinda tonight.”

“What do you mean?” Blake asked.

“She wanted your approval so badly. You gave it to her. And you didn’t even pitch a fit when she mentioned your wife,” she said. “She wants her mother here so much. I can see it in her eyes.”

Blake sat up straight and held the lapels of his jacket. “I did do rather well.”

Miss Finch harrumphed. “Cock of the walk, now.”

“We’re here,” Elizabeth said.

“Miss Finch,” Lady Katherine greeted. “Burroughs, Elizabeth. Melinda, you look lovely. Sandersberg.”

Everyone fell in step behind the matriarch and the staccato of her cane as it tapped a cadence across the marble floor. Her glare sent the group forward past other guests. “Hate waiting in these abominable lines.

Catch a chill from the door. You there, step aside.”

Gert had never seen anything, any place to compare. Twinkling lights, jeweled women in sparkling gowns, servants with champagne amidst dancing couples. She had to sigh. She couldn’t stop herself.

Melinda’s face was a reflection of the beauty and elegance of the room, Gert thought as she looked at the girl surveying her surroundings. Men, young and old, stared at her. Women did a glance from her shoes to her hair. Assessing, Gert supposed, the competition. Gert was introduced to a whirlwind of guests. She could never keep straight the earls from the dukes. Her thoughts were interrupted when Lady Katherine hit a young man on the arm with her cane.

“One dance, no more, young man. And don’t ask again or there won’t be any,” Lady Katherine said.

The man strode away in a hurry.

“Oh, Grand mama, don’t be so hard on him,” Melinda said and smiled.

Lady Katherine turned to Melinda. “You know the rules, gel. One dance per gentleman on your card, if you’ve been properly introduced and your family approves.”

Sanders took his daughter’s arm for her first dance. Gert could not deny they made a handsome couple.

He all dark and tall and stately, executing the dance perfectly. She all blonde and petite, following his lead with her head tilted up in smile. Lady Katherine did as Elizabeth expected and found a chair among matrons her age. Anthony went to get refreshments and Gert found herself merrily humming along with the orchestra as couples gathered again on the dance floor. A man appeared before them and bowed deeply over Elizabeth’s hand.

“My dear Lady Burroughs, you look lovely this evening.” The man’s head pivoted. “And who is your guest. I know her not and pride myself on knowing everyone worth knowing.”

The man’s eyes closed and his mouth wrinkled unattractively as he laughed at his own joke. Elizabeth introduced them. Lord Fitzmontique. There’s a handle, Gert thought. The man’s shoulders were smaller than her own, and his wig sat askew. The powder on his face had already begun to gather in his wrinkles from the warmth of the room. He looked up at her smiling, revealing far too many teeth for his rouged mouth.

“Do you waltz, Miss Finch? Do Americans waltz at their barn dances? Allow me to teach you. May I have this dance?” Lord Fitzmontique asked.

Fitzmontique’s teeth never parted as he spoke, but miraculously still allowed gobs of spit to land on Gert’s new burgundy dress. Anthony and Sanders joined them. The men bowed to each other and Gert noted there was no comparing this dandy to her host or her pirate. Both attired in black, no ruffles or frills on their shirts and thankfully no wigs or powder.

“I was just asking your delightful houseguest to join me in a waltz, Burroughs. Can’t have a lovely girl like this standing without a partner. It won’t do.” Fitzmontique laughed and held his hand to his chest.

“Miss Finch does not wish to dance, Fitzmontique,” Sanders said.

Gert did not want to dance with this she-man but would not allow Blake Sanders to decide for her. She was about to dance to prove her point when Fitzmontique’s stale breath hit her nose. He reeked.

“No thank you, sir,” Gert said.

“But my dear. I would be happy to teach you the waltz … or anything else you need to know,”

Fitzmontique said.

Gert knew her look of disdain was on her face. She could not help it. The idea of the man touching her sent shivers of revulsion down her spine.

“Really, sir. No thank you,” Gert repeated.

Two more men joined them and after bowing and introductions, Fitzmontique continued his quest. “I was telling Miss Finch, here, how I’d love to teach her to dance.”

The two men were more of Fitmontique’s ilk. One tall, one short and fat but powdered and jeweled all the same. The short one, chinless as well, stared unashamedly at Gert’s breasts. His jowls quivered and he rubbed his pudgy hands together.

“I’ll claim the next dance, Fitzmontique,” the short one said.

“No,” Sanders said.

The tall man eyed him. “Claiming her yourself, Sanders. A bit of muslin to ease your wife’s leave taking.”

Sander’s eye twitched. “Miss Finch is under my protection, Shuster.”

“Actually,” Tony said slowly, “she’s a cousin of my wife’s. Under my protection. If she declines a dance, so be it.”

“I will take care of this, Burroughs,” Sanders said. “Miss Finch is not dancing with any of you.”

The men descended quickly to finger pointing and name-calling.

“I’m not a mare that needs to be nipped on the ear to display who she belongs to,” Gert interrupted. The men stepped back, straightened their jackets and stared at her. The body odor from the three could have felled a tree, Gert thought as she covered her nose. “I’ve never danced with a man wearing women’s hair and make-up and don’t intend to begin now.”

Anthony hid a smile. Sanders beamed.

The men huffed and turned from the group. Scowling over their shoulders occasionally. Stopping to talk to other guests and pointing a none-too-discreet finger Gert’s way.

“I told you Elizabeth. Someone is going to have to do something about these dresses of Miss Finch’s.

Anthony and I will be dueling at dawn with these fools,” Sanders said.

Tony arched a brow. “Which fool will I be dueling with?”

“I thank you both but I do not need help to stave off men who don’t bathe and are half my size. Uncle Fred and the hands at the ranch made sure I knew how to defend myself,” Gert said and looked about the room.

“She does have a wicked right hook, Blake. As you know,” Anthony said.

“Where’s Melinda?” Elizabeth said standing on tiptoe. “I can’t see her.”

The four of them set off in different directions. Gert wondered about the fuss being made for one sixteen year old girl in a roomful of adults. How much trouble could she get into? Unless of course she was cornered by someone like Fitzmontique. Gert searched among dancers, groups of talkers and in the large room where women rested and fixed their hair. A set of French doors led to a balcony and Gert eased through. The night air of London was refreshing after the hanging vapors of cologne, tobacco and unwashed adults. She heard a familiar giggle.

“Melinda?” Gert said.

“Oh, dear,” Melinda said as she stepped into the moonlight. “Miss Finch?”

“What are you doing out here? Your father, Elizabeth and Anthony are searching everywhere,” Gert said.

A young man stepped out of the shadows to stand beside Melinda. “Lady Melinda wished a bit of fresh air. I escorted her.”

“The air’s just as fresh here in the light from the ballroom as it is in the shadows,” Gert countered. Even in the half-light, Gert could see Melinda blushed. “Come back inside with me, Melinda.”

Melinda straightened her hair and dress and looped her arm through Gert’s. They slipped into the room, unnoticed.

“Who was that young man, Melinda?” Gert asked.

Melinda shivered. “Isn’t he just wonderful? I danced with him a bit ago and when he asked if I needed some fresh air, well, I could hardly refuse.”

Gert raised her brows. “Why not?”

“It wouldn’t have been polite and … and,” Melinda looked up at Gert, “and well, I wanted to see what all the fuss is about. Have a handsome man admire me. I am an adult, don’t you know.”

“Hardly,” Gert said. “From what Elizabeth and your grandmother say, an episode like that could cause a serious problem in your marriage pursuit.”

Melinda fumed. “I know.”

“What’s the dilemma then, Melinda? This scandal business seems like nonsense to me but here in England….”

“That is the problem, Miss Finch.” Melinda bit her lip and looked away. “Maybe I don’t want to get married off right now. Especially to someone just hoping to get their hands on my inheritance.”

Gert was surprised at Melinda’s admission. She agreed, for certain, but had been convinced by Melinda herself that marriage was her destiny and hope.

“I’m afraid that’s not all that young man wanted to get his hands on,” Gert said.

Melinda giggled. “He rubbed my arms and held my hand and I felt shivers. It was wonderful.”

Gert watched this novice hug herself and close her eyes. Caught up in the extraordinary feelings that handsome boys evoked for beautiful girls. She had never been subject to what put a silly grin on Melinda’s face but she could tell it was a heady, powerful longing. A longing not unlike what Gert felt when Blake Sanders kissed her. A long buried dream of a man gazing at a woman with hunger and want.

A pirate to be specific, Gert admitted. The two women, one fresh in youth, one on the other side of desire, sighed audibly, together.

* * * *

Miss Finch jumped with a start. Melinda’s eyes opened wide.

“We were getting some air, Sanders,” Miss Finch said.

Blake watched the women. Something was amiss. Melinda looked guilty. Miss Finch’s shoulders dropped and Blake could only describe her as, well, forlorn. A young man bowed over Melinda’s arm and asked for a dance. His daughter looked up at him, charming him with her smile and he nodded his approval. Blake watched the young couple. Melinda blushed and batted her lashes. The boy grinned nervously and extended a tentative hand. Melinda laid her pale white fingers on his.

“The young earl would be a fine match for her,” Blake said. Melinda laughed coyly and beamed a smile the boy’s way. “I will admit I’ll be glad when this business is complete.”

“Don’t hurry her, Sanders,” Miss Finch said.

“I won’t rush her but if she finds a suitable match this season it would stem my worries.”

She turned to him and snapped. “Is that all you care about? That you have one less trivial detail to attend to?”

“No, I--”

“Wouldn’t it be wise to prolong your suffering to ensure your daughter’s happiness? That she found a mate she could love and respect?”

“It’s not how we do things, Miss Finch. As I have said to others, you have no understanding of English society.” Blake straightened his black cut away coat. “Marriage ensures the continuation of a fine tradition of duty and title. We have obligations to past generations and future heirs. A suitable mate for Melinda will feel the same way. Has naught to do with love. We, of the English peerage, understand the great weight and obligations entrusted to us.”

“A bunch of horse manure,” Miss Finch muttered. “If those three idiots I met earlier are any example of the English peerage, then I for one am glad no one’s life hangs in the balance. And for your grand scheming marriages, I’ve been witness to at least one failure.”

“I have heard quite enough scathing remarks this evening about Ann and I to fill this ballroom. I need not hear yours,” Blake said curtly.

“By the way, where is Helena this evening? I haven’t met her yet,” she asked.

Blake scowled. “You won’t.”

Elizabeth and Anthony joined them but Blake was in no mood for small talk. He clipped off a bow and left them. The American woman got under his skin like no one before. Her curt comments fueled his anger. Her dismissal of English ways were brainless. Really who wouldn’t want to be a duke or an earl?

Who wouldn’t want to own property, have servants and a title? A silly American without responsibilities.

Blake stopped mid-stride and sighed. He had never lived without people watching him for failure.

Servants and tenants depended on him for their livelihood. Generations of ghosts, long dead and yet to be conceived, waited to see which father’s son would doom their fortunes. Blake stopped in the middle of the ballroom and dropped his shoulders. What would it be like to be free, he wondered? What would life be like? What would he be?

Blake let his gaze roam around the room. Powdered idiots, like Fitzmontique, abounded. They laughed at their own silly jokes, laughed at each other’s expense all the while sticking snuff up their nose while their hands were down some woman’s bodice. They tittered and dueled, climbed into bed with their brother’s wives and threw away fortunes at the game tables.

Many looked at Blake oddly while he stood in solitary thoughtfulness in the center of the ballroom. The frightening thing to Blake at that moment was not the crass, crush that surrounded him but the question their dismissal begged. If these fools and their opinions meant nothing to him, if they disgusted him with false rules and gossip, then what was important to him? Even though religion itself was a hotbed for politics and court intrigue, Blake knew without question he believed in a hereafter. What would he say to Saint Peter when his time came? Blake laughed coarsely and mocked himself. I never bet too deeply or beat my servants? I can waltz with perfection. I kept a mistress for nearly twenty years.

Blake hated these occasional bouts he had with his conscience. What had started all this anyway, he wondered. He turned slowly toward Gertrude Finch.

Blake high-stepped through the crowd and shook his finger at her. “What makes you so almighty certain of yourself that you think you can judge me and my peers?” She looked at him blankly as did Elizabeth and Anthony.

“Blake?” Anthony questioned.

Blake held his hand to his head and stared at his boots. He had been arguing with himself, silently, he knew. What possessed him to think she had answers to his questions? As if she was privy to his imaginary debate.