Lord Blackwood's Valentine Ball: An Authentic Regency Romance (6 page)

Six

P
atience surveyed the glittering scene. She could pick out some acquaintances at a glance. Mamas and other matrons not anticipating any romantic gestures assumed the roles of duennas for the young ladies and did not don Valentine masks. Mrs. Sutcliffe was there to chaperone Sophie, and a number of her friends whose mamas were otherwise engaged. Resplendent in puce, Mrs. Sutcliffe had entered the spirit of the occasion with a glittering peacock fan. Sophie glowed prettily in primrose while talking to a masked gentleman who could only be Viscount Birdwell, judging from Sophie’s evident pleasure. Sophie’s friend, Miss Wicklow, looked ravishing in moss green. Was that Mr. Capshaw she spied bearing down upon Miss Wicklow? Clearly, many aspiring suitors would have their chance tonight to declare their intentions. Most of the guests wore elaborate and intriguing masks. Some masks even depicted birds, animals, or characters. Patience shrank back against the wall next to Mrs. Sutcliffe’s reassuring bulk and clutched her posy.

“That attitude simply won’t do, Miss Cherwell,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe in a kindly tone.

Patience jumped. She had been far away in a reverie. “What attitude won’t do, ma’am?”

“Hiding away as if you’re a wallflower. You look very lovely tonight if I may say so, my dear, and it’s time you shone in company.”

“W-Why, thank you, ma’am.”

“Not at all,” said the matron. “I’ve been married to Mr. Sutcliffe for nigh on twenty five years now, and I remember being young and hopeful, waiting for love to tap me on the shoulder.” Her eyes glittered as she bent a steely glance on Patience. “You must mingle and let people see how lovely you are. You should not be so reticent. My beloved grandmother used to say, ‘You’re a long time old, so don’t waste your youth. Enjoy every moment of it.’”

Henrietta’s identical exhortations echoed in her mind. Everyone was giving her the same advice, but good as it was, it was impossible to follow. She glimpsed someone waving across the room. Then Henrietta materialised next to her, breathless from walking quickly around the dancers.

“Oh, my dear!” Henrietta clasped her by one hand. “You look delightful.” Her gaze fell upon the posy Patience clutched in the other hand. “So thrilling! Someone has sent you a posy. Oh, a miracle. I knew it would happen. Aha! I see anemone, pansy, violet, and I do declare a yellow iris.”

Patience looked closer at the posy. Yes, half hidden by the other flowers, a yellow iris peeped out. A single flower. There must be some special meaning. But no, a friend had sent this posy. There was no particular significance to infer from it.

Henrietta shot her an arch look and tittered with suppressed excitement. She glanced about the room. “Perhaps he will declare himself tonight.”

“Who?” Patience asked.

Henrietta cocked her head and widened her eyes as if to indicate how silly Patience was to even ask. “Why, your mystery admirer, of course.”

She waved her hands about to indicate she carried no token, save for her fan dangling from a ribbon attached to her wrist. “I’m not here for love, of course, what with Mr. Paisley being such a splendid man that no one could hold a candle to him. I’m here to chaperone the Barlow gals—” She pointed discreetly to another part of the ballroom with the end of her fan where the attractive Misses Barlow stood, clasping their posies and gazing around the ballroom with excitement. “They both received such pretty bouquets that their dear mama begged me to attend so I could see who is desirous of approaching her gals.” She clapped her hands. “And no sooner had Mrs. Barlow told her friend, Lady Spenser, but her ladyship desired me to attend on behalf of her daughter, Serena, who received a lovely pink posy.”

She fanned herself. “All so rushed, of course, but I had an inkling my services would be required so I made sure my dressmaker had made me up something appropriate. One should always be prepared for an unexpected social event.” She glanced at Patience. “And I must say your dressmaker has surpassed herself tonight, my dear. No brown, beige, or dove? What a pleasant surprise.”

Patience swallowed. “Er…this dress belongs to Lorna.”

Henrietta let out a trill of laughter. “Lorna Hartley? Not likely. I dare say she never had such a colour in her wardrobe. Miss Hartley only wears strong shades, so she probably had this made especially for you.” She gave an approving nod. “And a very sweet gesture too, after all you have done for her, putting her ambitions before your own.” She touched the posy. “And since the flowers match so becomingly with your dress, I can only assume someone knew what to send you.”

Patience felt herself go hot and cold. Not Lorna? Then who could have sent the flowers? Oh, please, not someone who would fawn all over her, becoming a nuisance. How would she get rid of him? What should she say? An evening of embarrassment loomed before her. Could she escape before the midnight Valentine waltz? She could not leave Lorna alone at the ball. Oh, what a dreadful situation! Perhaps she could ask Henrietta to chaperone Lorna while she slipped away…

“Give him a chance. You may find him very agreeable indeed,” said Henrietta.

“What—?” Patience stammered.

Henrietta wagged one finger in reprimand. “I know that look. It tells me you already anticipate the worst and are trying to think up an excuse to escape before it happens.”

Patience squared her shoulders. “I am not!”

“Hmm.” Henrietta shrugged. “We’ll see if you’re still here by midnight. Oh, here comes your first admirer.”

Patience had no chance to refuse her prospective partner for, smiling, Henrietta indicated the gentleman should approach. Patience was swept up with someone who romped through a country-dance without fawning over her or trampling on her feet. Pleasantly surprised and a little out of breath, she then agreed to two more dances with a new partner who behaved impeccably, complimented her dress, and finally left her back where she had started with Mrs. Sutcliffe. Another dance with an agreeable partner who found her a chair and a glass of lemonade and engaged her in pleasant small talk before excusing himself to dance with another lady. Glancing across the room, she saw Lorna dancing with a tall, fair-haired man who seemed vaguely familiar. She could not place him, but Lorna seemed to be enjoying his company. She did not have a moment to spare, however, with more dances, more amusing talk, and then it was almost midnight.

Time had sped by so fast that it could not possibly already be five minutes to twelve. The orchestra conductor tapped with his baton and advised everyone to seek their partners. Already, each man was approaching the object of his affection. Some ladies sat, their shoulders drooping until an admirer approached them, murmured an invitation, and they sprang up, eager to dance. The most important dance of the evening…the Valentine waltz. Patience looked down at where her posy nestled in her lap. A pretty arrangement, and no doubt sent by some well-wisher, possibly even Lorna, but all for nothing.

“May I have this dance?” A gloved hand extended into her line of vision.

She looked up to see a tall, well-built man wearing a plain black mask. He smiled and there was something familiar about it. Had she met or seen him before?

“I think there’s some mistake,” she murmured but the man ignored her protest and swept her into his embrace as the music began. His arms encased her body in a strong grip, one hand pulling her near while the other held her waist. He was too close for comfort. She tried to inch back but met hard muscle as resistance. She gave up fighting what became a very enjoyable experience once she relaxed. Her partner danced superbly, spinning her round with ease and skill. Couples whirled across the floor like brilliant birds-of-paradise, the candlelight sparkling on the women’s jewels and decorations. Myriad colours reflected in the long mirrors for which Lord Blackwood’s ballroom was famous.

Her companion did not make conversation, and Patience was content to glide across the dance floor, clasped in his arms. She truly did feel as if she were floating, but something else was happening. The man’s nearness, the scent of his cologne, his voice when he had spoken all began to coalesce in her mind. She glanced up at his face, so close to hers. His chin! There was no mistaking the cleft.

It could not be Lord Blackwood. It
should
not be Lord Blackwood. It must be someone who closely resembled him. But what if it were? This was a terrible mistake! How had he chosen her for the Valentine waltz instead of Lorna? Lorna twirled past in a cloud of pink, her head thrown back as she laughed at something her partner said. The man she was dancing with had fair hair! She had seen Lorna earlier with the same man. Everyone had blundered tonight. Perhaps the posies had been mixed up. Her heart began to thud. Soon the dance would end, and what was she to say to him? He probably expected to see someone else in her place.

Somehow, without even seeming to guide her in this direction, her partner danced with her out onto a balcony. One last swirl and the music stopped as the clock began to strike the twelve notes to midnight. This was the signal for each man and woman to remove their partner’s mask. With trembling hands, Patience reached up to pull the ribbons holding the mystery man’s mask. She could feel his hands in her hair, gently untying the ribbons of her own.

How on earth had she ended up like this? Outside, on a balcony, and somehow pressing her body against the unbelievably attractive man who had danced with her? She tried to take a small step backwards, but his arms tightened around her.

“Don’t run away, Miss Cherwell.”

Just the sound of his voice again revealed all. She took the mask from his face and stared into the hazel eyes of the man she loved, the man who smiled at her with such an intimate, warm, compelling smile.

“You!” she gasped. “Lord Blackwood!”

His smile widened, showing his excellent teeth. “Why, of course it’s me. Were you expecting someone else?”

The sound of clapping came from the ballroom as all the dancers revealed their identities. Little squeals of pleasure from the ladies and masculine laughs floated toward her ears. It was not possible that Lord Blackwood had deliberately sought her out for this moment.

His smile died away and he looked puzzled. “Are you disappointed?”

Patience felt fire race through her body as he leaned towards her, his lips too close to hers as he murmured, “Because I am not. I am overjoyed.”

Her knees went weak, and she would have fallen except that he caught her around the waist and held her against his chest. “It was me you were expecting, wasn’t it?” His question held doubt, anxiety, and required reassurance.

Patience pressed away from his chest with both hands. “I…I thought you sent a posy to Miss Hartley.”

“Miss Hartley?” His expression was now completely bewildered. “But why would I send a posy to Miss Hartley when
you
carried my posy, thereby indicating you approved of my suit.”

“I didn’t know it was from you!” Patience cried. “I thought there must be some mistake, and that a polite friend had sent it to me so that I would not feel left out.”

He stared at her, as if trying to work out some complicated mathematical equation in his head. “Did you write the Valentine card that was delivered to me this morning?” he demanded. “Do you remember writing these lines?

‘My love belies my mien demure, while my soul demands a love so pure.

As my heart burns with passion’s flame, my inner turmoil only you can tame.

On this day of love, show me your faithful heart,

So that for eternity we shall never part.’”

He gazed at her. “There is more, but perhaps you cannot or refuse to remember? Let me refresh your memory.

‘Oh, my dearest, let me not in sadness pine,

Please be my love, be my Valentine.’”

He tilted his head in question. “So, Miss Cherwell, I ask again. Did you write that Valentine to me?”

“Yes! I did but—”

“But what?”

“I thought I was writing it for Lorna to give to you!”

He released her from the confines of his arms and stepped back to laugh out loud, even slapping one thigh. A few couples drifting past turned their heads and smiled at his amusement.

“Miss Cherwell, are you familiar with the language of flowers?”

Patience looked down at the posy she clutched. “I…er…I’m not sure.” Although she prided herself on knowing this kind of information, her mind went completely blank at that precise moment.

He touched the flowers in the posy one by one. “Shame on you, Miss Cherwell. You failed to read my reply to your message. The pansy means love. I am not sure if one could say the love so pure that your poetry demands, but I would like to think so. The yellow iris means passion. The blue violet means fidelity. Anemone means unfading love, or else for eternity.”

Lord Blackwood then caught her to him again. “My dear Miss Cherwell. You and I have both been the victims of Miss Hartley’s matchmaking. I confided to her my admiration of you—my sincere, deep, and heartfelt admiration. She encouraged me to endear myself to you and to get to know you better.”

Patience gasped. “Why! She said the same thing to me. That I should get to know you better because it would please her so much. I thought she was in love with you, and you with her.”

He shook his head. “No, I am far too old for Miss Hartley, lovely as she is.”