Gayle Buck (7 page)

Michele surveyed her reflection critically, not really seeing the raven-haired, blue-eyed beauty who returned her stare. She did not particularly anticipate the evening’s entertainment, but she had agreed to participate in the offerings of the Season. She had long since come to realize that that was the subtle substance of her promise to Lady Basinberry. It both annoyed and amused her that she had allowed herself to be so neatly handled by her ladyship. There was no denying that Lady Basinberry was experienced in gaining her own way.

Following a knock on the door, Lady Basinberry herself swept into the bedroom. She was attired in a purple satin gown that lent elegance to her spare frame. Adorned by a single curling black feather, a turban of the same satin covered her head. Upon seeing Michele in her finery, she gave an approving nod. “Michele, you look lovely. I have just come from Lydia’s bedroom. She sends her regards and an adamant request that you wait upon her before we descend.”

“Thank you, my lady. I am ready now, so I shall go at once to Lydia.” Michele flashed a smile for the elder lady. “I hope that your expectations for the evening are realized, my lady.” She knew how much time Lady Basinberry had put into the planning of the ball, and even though she could not be wholly enthusiastic about the upcoming evening, she could yet hope that Lady Basinberry’s efforts were rewarded.

Lady Basinberry smiled and her eyes lit with amusement. She was quite aware that this niece of hers had ambivalent feelings about her presentation into English society. “I believe that it will go off very well. I anticipate that both my lovely nieces will be a complete success tonight, even though one prefers to hope otherwise.”

Michele laughed, shaking her head. “How do you know my thoughts so well?”

“You forget that I am an old woman grown wise to the ways of the world and the hearts of men. Pray go and discover what is of such importance to Lydia, but do not tarry long. I shall await you both downstairs. Our guests should begin to arrive quite soon.”

Michele went along the hall and knocked on Lydia’s door. It was opened immediately by her cousin’s maid. From inside came Lydia’s urgent query: “Michele, is that you?”

“Yes, it is I,” Michele said, stepping inside.

Her cousin was standing before her cheval glass. She was dressed for the evening and looked ethereally lovely with her blond hair haloing her even features. Unlike Michele, Lydia had never been presented before to society and so she wore the traditional pale color deemed appropriate for a young lady. Her gown was pale pink satin, and tiny beads had been embroidered over the bodice. Lydia’s appearance was perfect, down to the tiny matching pink satin slippers that peeped from beneath her hem, but she wore a look of distress.

“Lydia, whatever is the matter?” Michele asked, going to her cousin’s side.

Lydia motioned dramatically at a trio of posies that lay on the dresser. “Do but look! What am I to do, Michele? One is from dear, dear Papa, and this—such sweet rosebuds!—from my beloved Bernard.
That
is from Lord Randol.” Her shaking finger pointed to a lovely arrangement of white carnations. She looked up in despair. “I so wish to wear Bernard’s flowers, but Papa would be furious. He was present when I received the ones from Lord Randol, you see, and he said quite archly that he would not be at all offended if I should choose another’s offering over his own. Michele, you simply must help me.”

Michele thought for a moment while Lydia regarded her with anxious eyes. “The most diplomatic route would be to wear the gift from your father. However, in order to please him, you must wear the one from Lord Randol.”

Lydia’s face fell. “Oh, I had so hoped that . . . well, it is of little consequence. I shall do as you suggest.’’ Listlessly she picked up Lord Randol’s carnations and gave them to her maid so that they could be pinned to her gown.

Michele laughed at her cousin’s forlorn expression. “Come, Lydia! It but takes a little imagination to turn this fine dilemma to advantage. Do you not think that a few pink rosebuds twisted into your hair fillet would prove charming?”

Comprehension dawned in Lydia’s eyes. She threw her arms around Michele and gave a delighted giggle. “I do thank you! What a splendid, splendid notion!” She whirled away to address her maid, who had anticipated her and was already carefully taking apart the posy from Captain Hughes.

Michele remained with Lydia until the transformed fillet was pronounced to be perfect. Then she and Lydia left the bedroom and went downstairs.

The first guests had begun to arrive and the young ladies joined Lady Basinberry and Mr. Davenport in forming a receiving line. As each guest was announced and greeted, Lady Basinberry introduced her nieces. Michele smiled and extended her hand innumerable times. Some of the faces were familiar to her, and then she was able to exchange more than the barest pleasantries. One such personage was the Countess of Kenmare.

Lady Kenmare clasped Michele’s hand in both of her own. Her pleasant expression was warmed by genuine friendliness. “My dear Michele, how happy I am to see you again. We quite lost touch with your family once we returned to England, which I have always regretted. You and Abigail were such good friends,” she said.

“Yes, and I would like to see her again while I am in London. Is she with you this evening, my lady?”

Lady Kenmare shook her head. “I wish that she were. But she is at home in Scotland, preparing to make me a grandmother.” She laughed and her wide gray eyes twinkled. “I do not feel at all old enough to don such a role, but sometimes these things are thrust upon one.” She said a few more kind words and promised to call on Michele in the near future before she moved on.

“My dear, I did not know that you were acquainted with the Countess of Kenmare,” Lady Basinberry said, regarding her niece with astonishment.

“Nor did I,” Michele said, laughing. “When I saw her ladyship in Brussels, she was a mere widow. Her daughter and I were brought out in the same year. It is quite astonishing to hear that Abigail is a matron and a mother-to-be.’’

Lady Basinberry was on the point of remarking that Michele should have been in the same position, when her attention was distracted. She stared hard at the young gentleman who was bowing low to Lydia. “Captain Hughes, I believe,” she said, inserting herself beside Lydia.

Captain Hughes smiled and made his obeisance to her ladyship. He was not at all put out of countenance by Lady Basin-berry’s cool tone. “Kind of you to remember me, my lady. I hope to visit more with you and your delightful nieces later in the evening,” he said jauntily, sliding a glance at Lydia before he moved on to exchange a friendly word with Michele.

Mr. Davenport had noted what appeared to him to be an outrageously flirtatious wink at his daughter. He nudged his sister and said in a low voice, “The boy is tenacious, Beatrice. You shall have to be a veritable watchdog to see that he does not monopolize Lydia. I do not wish her other suitors, and one in particular, to be put off.”

Lady Basinberry snorted and said with some asperity, “Pray do not aspire to lecture me upon my duty, Edwin. After creditably marrying off three daughters, I think that I know better than you how to arrange these matters.”

“Of course, Beatrice. I bow to your wide experience,” said Mr. Davenport, not at all insulted. In fact he was immensely pleased that he could allow the responsibility for his daughter’s future to rest squarely in his sister’s capable hands.

Michele’s pleasant interchange with Captain Hughes was brought to an abrupt end when she glanced around to meet Lord Anthony Randol’s unfriendly gaze. She felt her heart jump into her throat. Her expression altered and Captain Hughes turned his head quickly to look at his lordship in some surprise. He said a few more gracious words that Michele replied to in a disjointed fashion, and she hardly noticed when Captain Hughes withdrew. All her attention was riveted on Lord Randol.

Despite the jagged scar that began above his right brow and narrowed down nearly to the jaw, his lean face was disturbingly attractive. The proud lift of his dark head, the breadth of his shoulders, his straight stature, were all as she remembered. But the cold expression in his gray eyes reminded Michele that he was not the same man she had once loved. She took a steadying breath and inclined her head. “Lord Randol.”

He smiled, though there was little amusement in the curl of his lips. He took her gloved hand and with the stiffness characteristic of any movement of his right arm, he lifted her fingers to his lips for the briefest of seconds. “Mademoiselle du Bois. You are perhaps lovelier than when we first met. We all change, though not necessarily for the better.” He made a slight gesture toward his disfigured face. The expression in his eyes was sardonic as he awaited her reaction.

Michele nodded in a matter-of-fact fashion. She knew better than to allow herself to exhibit any emotion over his scarred countenance. She had seen too often, with others who had been maimed, how the least measure of pity either encouraged self-pity or induced bitter rage. “That is true, my lord. The war, and in particular Waterloo, changed many things. This is my first Season in London. Undoubtedly I shall meet many old acquaintances,” she said, managing a credible smile. It was difficult to remain coolly impersonal when what she really wished to do was to ask what had so embittered him toward her.

Lord Randol stared at her for a moment, a sudden frown forming between his brows. He had expected something quite different from the lady’s prosaic attitude, and he was unaccountably infuriated that she had not reacted as he had assumed she would. Abruptly he bowed. “Mademoiselle.” He walked away to mingle on the crowded ballroom floor.

Michele looked after his lordship, not knowing what to think. There had been almost a look of surprise in his eyes. The next instant a shutter had seemed to come down over his expression and he had turned on his heel.

Michele jumped at a touch on her elbow. “How you startled me, Lydia!”

“Did I? I am sorry. Michele, our aunt says that we have done our duty for the evening. She has given permission for us to leave the receiving line.”

There was such a note of relief in her voice that Michele laughed at her. “Let’s not tarry, then. Her ladyship may reconsider her magnanimity at any moment.”

Lydia laughed as they entered the ballroom together. It was a colonnaded chamber of graceful proportions, its length evenly marked by tall velvet-draped windows. Countless arrangements of cut flowers scented the air, and bunches of burning candles threw a bright glow. A respectable crowd laughed and talked, some twirling about the marble floor to the musicians’ strains, while others were content to stand about or sit in the chairs grouped around the room.

Michele and Lydia were immediately claimed by gentlemen desiring to squire them around the dance floor. They never suffered the humiliation of standing out of a set for the lack of a partner, and the evening went quickly with the dancing. At one point Michele found herself in the same quadrille as Lord Randol. As they came together in the movement of the country dance, he said, “How serene you appear, mademoiselle. I am surprised.”

“I do not understand you, my lord,” she said, not quite steadily. She felt his antagonism in the hard grip of his fingers on hers.

He laughed and his flinty gray eyes mocked her. “Do you not, mademoiselle? You were not used to be one so bereft of wit. Perhaps I may enlighten you one day.”

Michele looked full into his face. Deliberately she threw down the gauntlet to him. “I would welcome such enlightenment, my lord!”

Lord Randol stared down at her. His lips twisted in the semblance of a smile. “Would you, indeed?”

The dance separated them then, and when they came together again, Michele declined to meet Lord Randol’s occasional glance, preferring to maintain a cool and detached demeanor. He did not address her again, for which she was thankful. When the set was ended, Michele was claimed by her original partner and walked away from Lord Randol with only a polite nod.

Though several times afterward she became aware of Lord Randol’s scrutiny, he apparently did not intend to approach her for the remainder of the evening. What she did not know was that he started toward her once, before stopping abruptly, his fists clenching and unclenching. He had then turned on his heel and swung away, his visage cold and forbidding.

Chapter Seven

Michele was not surprised when Sir Lionel Corbett made an appearance at the ball. After receiving the flowers and his note, she had prepared herself to treat him with nothing more than cool friendliness. She gave her hand to him. “Sir Lionel, this is well-met indeed,” she said.

He raised her hand to his lips and ardently kissed the tips of her fingers. “You have no notion what thoughts ran through my head when I first caught sight of you in the park,” he said in a lowered voice.

Michele gently drew her hand from his warm clasp. She kept her tone light. “I know that I was startled on my first outing to discover a personage known to me. However, I suppose that it is only to be expected. I have greeted a few others who were once acquaintances, among them the Countess of Kenmare. Her daughter was one of my dearest friends. Surely you will recall her. Miss Abigail Spence.”

“Yes, of course. I believe I heard that she married some Scotsman or other,” Sir Lionel said. He glanced at the flowers pinned to her gown. When he saw that they were not his offering, his lips tightened. But almost instantly his expression altered to one of pleasantness. “I hope that you will save me a turn about the floor, mademoiselle. As I recall, we were paired rather well, in dance as well as in other ways.”

Michele smiled to hide her irritation at his rather obvious attempt to reestablish a familiarity that she was plainly unwilling to allow. “Perhaps a country set, Sir Lionel.”

He realized that he had erred.
He raised her hand once more, this time merely brushing his lips across the back. “I shall look forward to the moment, Mademoiselle du Bois,” he said formally. There was a quirky set to his lips, however, that let Michele know that he had deliberately taken his cue from her own sudden formality. She shook her head, reluctantly laughing, as Sir Lionel sauntered away.