Not Quite Darcy (10 page)

With a sigh of resignation, Eliza dug a spoon into William's uneaten dessert. She could at least spare him that indignity. This stuff couldn't possibly taste as nasty as it looked.

Or maybe it could. Gamely curbing her gag reflex, she swallowed down a bite of his dessert and tipped the rest into the trash.

Chapter Eleven

William walked up the steps of the Alexander Club at a leisurely pace. The gaslights framing the front doors glowed with a warm welcome. Several gentlemen were clustered at the front door. They nodded a polite greeting as he passed. Certainly, the ball began at eight, but it was fashionable to be late to such affairs. Besides, if he could avoid a few hours of unpleasantness by whiling away some time at his club, who would it hurt? Mother needn't know.

Once inside the club, it was as lively as he expected. William walked past the library in favor of the main lounge. Men clustered at various tables around the room engaging in cards or conversation. He spotted a familiar face playing a hand of whist at a nearby table, Edward Perry. William had grown so accustomed to seeing Perry in boxing gear he almost didn't recognize him in full formal wear.

“William Brown.” Perry looked up from his cards and gave William a friendly nod. “You're looking rather splendid this evening.”

“As are you.” William smiled in greeting.

“Going to the soiree at the Rallings tonight?”

“I am indeed.”

Perry placed his cards face down on the table and strode to William's side. “Your timing is impeccable. I was about to depart myself. We should go together, don't you think?”

“Certainly.” William was more than pleased. He was delighted. He usually had to endure these social events by himself. Attending with Perry just might make the ordeal a little more bearable.

“I was going to walk,” Perry said, “but I presume you've brought a conveyance. Shall we be off, or would you rather stay a while?”

“I'm quite indifferent,” William said. Though he'd planned on wasting a bit of time at the club, attending the ball with Perry would more than make up for it.

“To the carriage then,” Perry said, leading the way to the exit.

Since Davy had only just dropped William off, he pulled around to the front of the club in no time. The men settled themselves inside. Before Davy could make it around to the driver's seat, Perry slipped a hand inside his coat, withdrawing a large flask. He handed it to William and withdrew its twin.

William laughed. “You come quite prepared.”

Perry grinned in response. “I do indeed. I've another flask in my trouser pocket, but it's not really large enough to matter. Shall we drive us around for a bit before we go to the Rallings?”

“An excellent suggestion.” William leaned out and told Davy to drive around Hyde Park before taking them to the address on Pall Mall. Davy nudged the horses into action. Sitting back down, William took a deep drink from the flask. “Such tedious affairs, balls.”

“Quite,” Perry said. “Though this one promises to be entertaining at least. It will be quite flush with American heiresses, ripe for the picking.”

Not knowing quite how to respond, William tipped the flask back for another drink.

“I wonder how Miss Jerome will handle coming down to the level of an English ball.”

“Who is she?” William asked.

Perry laughed. “You truly must ignore society to not know who she is. Jennie Jerome? Daughter of Leonard Jerome, the King of Wall Street. New money, of course.
The Times
did a write-up on them just the other week.”

“I'm afraid I missed that,” William said, feeling as though he'd missed nothing.

“Their ballroom in New York City features fountains: one for champagne and the other for cologne. Proper London society finds it all terribly garish.” Perry grinned wickedly. “I find it delightful. Did you know that the Jerome mansion has a breakfast room that seats seventy and a private theater for over six hundred?”

“As I missed
The Times
article, I did not.” William took another sip of whiskey, already feeling the alcohol loosening his tongue.

Perry gave William a wicked grin and held up his flask. “God bless the Dollar Princesses—may they continue to have more money than sense and save the poor British aristocracy.”

William clanked his flask against Perry's and they drank deeply.

“Can you imagine the work it would cause a staff,” William added after a moment, “to serve breakfast to seventy people?”

Perry burst out in laughter. “What an absolutely unexpected thing to say. I suppose I hadn't actually considered the matter from a servant's point-of-view, but now that you mention it, excellent point.” He held his flask aloft. “And here's to the staff.”

William smiled at his own foolishness and joined him in the toast.

William's flask was still three quarters full by the time the carriage lurched to a stop at a fashionable address on Pall Mall. Though there was a slight crush at the door, they'd managed to forestall the worst of it. With Perry at his side, he made polite introductions. Lord and Lady Rallings, chilling and distant, nodded politely and the American cousin—Emma or Emily—was pretty in an arrogant sort of way. She wore a bright teal gown decorated with peacock feathers and was surrounded by the required thick cloud of admirers.

Upon entering the ballroom proper, Perry immediately spotted some college chums and they began a lively conversation about cricket. William excused himself as soon as it was polite for him to do so. He stole to his usual spot in such affairs—just to the side of the orchestra. He found that when he positioned himself directly in front of the bass, it effectively discouraged all but the most persistent conversational partners.

He watched as the dancers whirled past on the dance floor. During a waltz, he smiled when he saw Perry on the arm of a striking redhead. William was paying so much attention to his friend, that it took a moment before he noticed that he was no longer entirely alone.

A pretty woman in a sky-blue gown had positioned herself a few feet away, just behind a large, potted palm. She had elaborately styled blonde hair, adorned with fresh red rosebuds and large blue eyes that matched her gown. She watched the dancers whirl past with a composed, almost regal expression on her face. When the song ended, she glanced up at William and before he could avert his eyes, she very deliberately placed her open fan in her right hand.

Oh dear.

William sighed. Ladies' use of fans had very strict interpretations in a ballroom setting. An open fan carried in the right hand meant that the pretty blonde was desirous of conversation. Though William had studied fan language diligently, he'd never had a lot of practice. Ladies and their fans always reminded William of semaphore flags. The men were all simply hapless sailors, while the ladies hailed them to port or signaled them toward the rocks.

Still, the only thing a gentleman could do at such an invitation would be to introduce himself.

He stepped toward her and bowed from the waist. “Excuse me, we haven't been introduced. I'm William Brown.”

The young lady inclined her head gracefully. “Pleased to meet you. I'm Florence Shumway.” Her accent was unmistakably American.

“Lovely ball, isn't it?” William knew it was imperative he talk about something inconsequential in these settings.

“Yes, it is.” She smiled prettily.

“The temperature seems quite comfortable, however,” he said. “So often these affairs can become quite warm.”

“Oh, yes.” Florence nodded, almost imperceptibly. “The temperature is most agreeable.”

William reached up to tug on his hair, but caught his hand halfway and adjusted his waistcoat instead. How could a conversation about nothing be so very taxing?

“Forgive my boldness, Miss Shumway, but I can't help but detect an accent. Would you by chance be from America?”

“Oh, there is nothing to forgive, sir. I'm from New York City. Manhattan, actually.” She waved an arm, because where else would she be from? “Have you had the occasion to visit the United States, Mr. Brown?”

“No, I'm afraid I've not had that pleasure.”

She tilted her head toward him and, with a very purposeful look in her eye, dropped her fan. William immediately bent to retrieve it. He handed it to her and she gifted him with murmured thank you and another smile.

William quickly searched his memory, trying to recall what a dropped fan meant. He was fairly certain that it was intended to signal a wish for friendship, but he wasn't exactly sure. Meanings were quite baffling and could be easily misinterpreted. When a woman fanned herself quickly, it meant “I love you,” but slow movement meant “don't waste your time.” If either the man or woman had differing opinions regarding fan speed, the misunderstanding could lead to disastrous consequences.

Miss Shumway gazed out to the dance floor, while she toyed with the dance card on her wrist. “The dancers are in fine form this evening, are they not?” she asked.

“Oh, indeed.” Perhaps, William mused, she would like to dance. It would be delightful if ladies simply came out and said such a thing. He knew Eliza certainly would have.

At the thought of that bright spark of a house maid in such a setting, he couldn't help but smile. And should she dare to dance? Based on her strange, invigorating movements while singing and cleaning—why, he couldn't imagine how she might transform the ballroom floor.

“You're looking terribly pleased, Mr. Brown. I can't help but wonder what it is you might be thinking of.” Miss Shumway glanced down at her fan, looking at its painting with interest. “You wouldn't be thinking about dancing, would you?”

“Ah, not precisely,” he said, only lying a little. “I will confess that I'm not very adept at it.”

“I suspect you underestimate yourself, sir,” she said. William had expected as much. Whenever he expressed a dislike of dancing, ladies took no mind of it whatsoever. He suspected Mr. Darcy's disinclination toward dancing had ruined the excuse for men everywhere.

“I would, of course, be honored should you agree to dance with me, Miss Shumway.” He gave a slight bow from the waist.

“With pleasure, sir.” Miss Shumway lowered her gaze and took his arm.

William swallowed, and led her onto the dance floor just as the orchestra began. To his great relief, it was the quadrille, one of the simpler dances and he was quite familiar with the steps.

As the dance progressed, he was more than a little amazed that it went so well. He managed not to step on her toes and Miss Shumway was grace defined. When the song ended, he led her back to their spot near the orchestra and engaged in small talk. She made polite inquiries about his family and he spoke of generalities regarding the music. William considered that if his mother had been able to see him, she'd have been terribly proud. Any outsider would see that he was a most solicitous conversationalist and as Miss Shumway made no particularly violent fan gestures, one could only presume that she found him pleasing company.

His mind continued to turn back toward Eliza, however, wondering the sorts of conversational topics she might touch upon. He had a distinct feeling that whatever she would talk about, it would be a long way from the weather and ball season. And she would be absolutely captivating.

William forced his concentration back to the present. “And how do you find England, Miss Shumway?”

“It's wonderful. All the old buildings. And the gentlemen here are so well read.”

“Ah, do you enjoy reading as well?” Books—a wonderful conversational topic.

“That I do, Mr. Brown. I will confess that Lord Byron is one of my very favorites.” She smiled. “What are your feelings on Byron? Or are you one of those gentlemen who can't abide poetry?”

“Quite the opposite. I am fond of a great many poets.”

“And who do you enjoy, sir?”

“I am quite partial to William Blake and Emily Barrett Browning,” he said, before adding, “And the American poet, Kurt Cobain. Have you heard of him?”

Miss Shumway folded her fan and rested it against her left cheek. William searched his memory. Fan to left cheek either meant “no” or “yes.” Or possibly “I don't trust you,” though he couldn't imagine she'd have cause for such a conclusion. He felt like a sailor, floundering at sea as he considered his next course of action.

“Would you like some punch, Miss Shumway?” Perhaps this was just the time for a well-timed exit. Or at least a breather. “I would be pleased to bring a glass to you.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Brown. You are too kind.” She opened her fan and gazed down at the roses painted on its surface. Did looking at the fan's surface mean something? Surely, it must.

William spun around and wove through the crowd toward the empty refreshment room. He paused, admiring the plates of sliced meats tied up with ribbons, the selection of iced fruits and delicate pastries arranged on silver trays. But he knew perfectly well he wouldn't be able to stall for long. It wouldn't be gentlemanly. He plucked two glasses of punch from a tray and skirted his way around the dance floor, toward the orchestra where the lovely Miss Shumway waited.

As he neared, he could see that she was no longer alone. William recognized the trim, athletic man who stood at her side in an instant. It was Charles Cavendish from the club. He was Perry's friend and had sparred with them on quite a few afternoons lately. Though Cavendish was more about brawn than brains, he was a pleasant enough fellow. When William reached the couple, Cavendish turned to greet him with a smile and a bow.

“Mr. Brown. Pleasure. I seem to be running into you everywhere these days.”

William returned the bow, careful not to spill the punch. “Mr. Cavendish.” He turned to hand the glass of punch to Miss Shumway.

“Thank you ever so much.” She folded her fan and placed it on her wrist, then gave him a small smile. “Mr. Cavendish here has been kind enough to keep me company. I take it that you know one another?”

“We're in the same club, actually,” Cavendish said.

“Oh?” She lifted her gloved hand and took a delicate sip of punch. “And do you share Mr. Brown's proclivity toward poetry?”