Susanne Marie Knight (5 page)

And two of the aforementioned flies were Fenwick and Penning.

David nudged a bit of dirt with the toe of his boot, then glanced up at Miss Branford. “It has come to my ears that you enjoy tooling about the park in the afternoon.”

The shade from nearby beech trees darkened her fair face. “Yes, sir. Mr. Fenwick and Lord Penning have been most obliging in driving us about. It’s important to take advantage of this fine weather before the harshness of winter sets in, don’t you agree?”

Instead of replying, David watched the parade of carriages passing by their position. And, blast it all, every man, young or old, had his gaze firmly glued upon Miss Branford’s comely visage.

More demmed flies.

A cool breeze filtered through the trees and into his bones. He was not the only one to feel the cold. Miss Branford and his sister pulled their shawls tighter around their shoulders.

Fine weather or no, winter was heralding its arrival sooner than expected. “Come, ladies. Let us return to the carriages. It grows frosty.”

He led both women back to the waiting carriages. Once there, he gave out assignments. “Mother, you do not mind continuing your outing in Mr. Fenwick’s tilbury, do you? I wish to escort Miss Branford home in your barouche.”

“Not at all, my boy. Not at all.” The Countess smiled at her cicisbeo.

Petunia pouted. “What about me, Davy?”

David glanced meaningfully at his friend.

“What? Hey, I say, I would be honored if you accompany me, Lady Petunia,” Penning piped up.

“Oh, all right. Have it your way, brother mine.” Petunia allowed Penning to help her up in his high-perched phaeton. “But do not dawdle on the road, Davy. Tonight is the Duchess of Margrove’s fête and we must have plenty of time to prepare. ’Tis Bethany’s formal introduction into society, you know.”

Tonight? He had forgotten the Duchess’ much anticipated ball, which was not a surprise considering all the meetings and business matters he had juggled since arriving back in London from his trip to Paris.

“Until later, then.” David watched his sister and friend take off in the phaeton, then waved to his mother and Fenwick departing in the tilbury.

With everyone else gone, David helped Miss Branford into the enclosed barouche. Once the horses were on their way, he settled back onto the comfortable squabs, glad for a chance to talk to his houseguest in private.

Miss Branford beat him to it. “Is there anything wrong, sir? You seem to be in an ill-humor.”

Blast.

The girl spoke her mind, that much was certain. He removed his hat and ran his hand through his hair. “The truth of it is, I wondered, Miss Branford, is my mother an adequate chaperon?”

Her large hazel eyes blinked several times, probably in astonishment at his inquiry. “Why, yes, sir. The Countess and Lady Petunia both have been extremely conscientious and gracious in their attentions to me.” She worried her plump lower lip between her pearly white teeth. “Have you seen anything amiss in my behavior?”

Double blast!

Acting as guardian or father figure to an extremely nubile young female was difficult in the extreme. David shifted in his seat, quite aware that he was exceedingly attracted to Miss Bethany Branford…and his body made no secret of the fact.

“No, no. Of course not.” He hurried to set her mind at ease. “I, er, I only noticed that you seem to exhibit a slight partiality for Mr. Fenwick, and, as yet, I am not acquainted with his circumstances to know if he is, well, a suitable, er, suitor.”

Her eyes grew enormously large.

“Mr. Fenwick?” She smiled, then lifted her chin and laughed heartily. “Oh no, sir. You are mistaken. I am not partial to Mr. Fenwick in the slightest. He is, you must know, a favorite of your mother’s, and to please her, I am polite to him. I have given him no encouragement. I confess, sir, I cannot understand why Mr. Fenwick is quite so attentive to me when the Countess is very obvious in her preference.”

Plain speaking again. How rare that trait was in females.

To hide his grin, David glanced out the window. The carriage came to a halt in front of his townhouse. “To be sure, my mother can be a most determined flirt when it suits her. Only my father was able to curb that tendency of the Countess’. In any event, I am glad we have had this chance to talk about these matters. You are…quite an attractive woman, and I am certain the more you are out in society, the more attention…and marriage offers you will attract.”

His words were intended as a compliment, but instead of being pleased, she seemed to be the reverse.

She squared her shoulders, flared her nostrils, and frowned. “Sir, I did not come to London to contract a marriage. Indeed that is most impossible — ”

The surprise on his face stopped her.

She gathered her skirts, then murmured, “Please excuse me.”

A servant opened the barouche door, and she flew out onto the sidewalk, a veritable blur as she dashed up the steps into the townhouse.

How very extraordinary.

David took his time in exiting the carriage. Although he had pressing personal and government business weighing heavily upon him, he dismissed everything except this particular matter at hand. Of number one importance was to learn just why the exceedingly attractive Miss Bethany Bradford believed marriage to be impossible for her.

Miss Hasbrouck followed the instructions on a mysterious note that had been slipped under her bedchamber door. After climbing stairs to the attic, she came to a closed door. She placed her hand on the doorknob. Panic welled in her heart, but she ignored her fear. She had come this far; she had to discover what was behind the door.

She turned the knob and the door creaked open.

“Looking for something, Miss Hasbrouck?”

Goodness! She nearly jumped out of her skin. Swallowing her mortification, Miss Hasbrouck turned around to face the imposing figure of Lord Innis.

He —

Bethany’s bedchamber door opened. Before she had a chance to put away her writing, Petunia entered.

“Gracious, Bethany! What in the world are you doing? Writing a letter at this late hour? Unthinkable! ’Tis almost time to leave for the fête.” She stepped further into the room, then made a quick turn. The lace overlay on her blue satin gown danced airily about her ankles. “How do you like my new dress? And my pearls. Weatherhaven bought them for me.”

“You look lovely.” Bethany quickly set aside her writing quill and put her papers into the desk drawer. Standing, she smoothed the soft crêpe material of her ball dress. Her gown was also new, one of the many purchases from her expedition to the Bond Street shops.

She fingered the edge on the low bodice. Ladies’ fashions had changed considerably since she last shopped. She had far too much bosom exposed — an exceedingly uncomfortable circumstance. To cover the expanse of skin, she wore a dove grey scarf of the same fabric as her dress.

Petunia gave Bethany’s appearance a thorough going over. “I do adore your gown, Bethany. ’Tis a pity that you must dress in half-mourning. I’m sure a bright color like my blue would do wonders for your complexion.”

“That doesn’t signify. I only wish I had more material up on top.”

“Nonsense. You’ll be all the crack tonight. See if I’m not right.”

Since Petunia’s gown was just as decadent, Bethany dismissed her words.

Petunia hurried to the door. “Get your gloves and reticule, then we’ll be off.”

Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Bethany reluctantly followed her young friend down the stairs. She dreaded seeing Lord Ingraham again. How could she have behaved so abominably in the carriage this afternoon?

Not that it was an excuse, but his insistence that she was in London to attract a husband had upset her equilibrium. After all, she had to be realistic; who could want to marry a near dowerless woman?

More to the point, she wasn’t interested in marriage.

Once downstairs, they entered the drawing room where Lady Ingraham waited on the flowered settee.

“Here you are, my girls. And finely dressed you both are, too.” She stood and waved them out the door. “Let us make haste to the barouche. No time to waste. ’Tis a certainty there will be a fair crush of carriages lining the streets on the way to the Duchess of Margrove’s residence.”

“But where is Davy?”

Petunia spoke Bethany’s very question.

The Countess shook her head, sending the long plume of bright blue ostrich feathers in her toque into a frenzy. “You know your brother, my dear. Some business came up. Important, of course. Never fear. David promised he will join us at Margrove House.”

“I shall hold him to it,” Petunia said firmly.

Bethany withheld comment. As she stepped into the stylish barouche, she crossed her gloved fingers, wishing her luck would hold. Perhaps Lord Ingraham’s important business would drive her missish behavior from this afternoon from his mind.

She could hope, couldn’t she?

The Duchess of Margrove’s extraordinary ball was not to be missed especially if one desired to dine on exotic foods from the far-flung corners of the world: foods such as black eel soup, spiced Persian melon, and fried bustard meat.

But David didn’t wish to dine on exotic foods or standard English fare. He’d attended this sumptuous fête at the urgent behest of two very influential personages: the Foreign Secretary, Lord Liverpool, and the Viscountess Weatherhaven, Lady Petunia.

To most of Britain, Robert Banks Jenkinson — the second Earl of Liverpool — was the more important of the pair in question. However, to David, and to Lord Weatherhaven himself, Petunia held the keys to their happiness in the palms of her dainty little hands.

For Weatherhaven, this power was a pleasurable one. For David, on the other hand…He shook his head. Sisters.

And speaking of said sibling, where the devil was she and his mother? And Miss Bethany Branford?

“Lud, man.” Henry Penning joined David by the crimson satin damask drapes tasked with covering a large picture window. “Why the deuce are you looking like thunder? The Duchess throws a top o’ the trees affair. Nothing but the best for polite society, don’t you know?”

He pulled out a white linen handkerchief to mop at his forehead.

David couldn’t blame his friend for that indelicate action. The oppressive heat inside this enormous ballroom caused many a fair maiden to swoon. Obviously there were too many revelers and too many candles burning in the numerous crystal chandeliers.

“I know, Penning. It is just that royalty might also attend. Liverpool relayed to me that the Regent received an invite.” He hesitated. The Prince Regent wasn’t acknowledged as a model of restraint and decorum — and that was phrasing it quite mildly. “George does tend to be divisive on certain issues.”

And diverse political opinions often lead to knock down, bloody brawls.

Penning pocketed his handkerchief. “Bless me, yes, I quite understand. If Prinny gets his rotund bottom here, the party will go downhill in a trice. He’s always got a bee in his bonnet about some outrageous notion.”

“Indeed.” David kept his voice low. While the words they spoke weren’t treason by any stretch of the imagination, the Regent was a very thin-skinned man. Once a person got into his black books, he remained there — forever. He steered the conversation onto a safer topic. “Have you seen Lady Petunia about?”

“No,” was the immediate reply. “I’ve been on the lookout for your mother’s party.” Penning compensating for his middling height by rising onto his black-slippered toes to gaze out at the entrance to the ballroom. “Must secure a dance or two with our very own Incomparable.”

Although introducing Miss Branford to society with the end purpose of marriage was exactly what David had intended, he could not help glowering at his friend.

The fading strains of music sounded. A set of minuets was now over, which meant matrons would be on the lookout for unattached men to partner with their eligible daughters for another round. Before David had a chance to make himself scarce, his hostess, the Duchess of Margrove, set her considerable sails in his direction.

“Ah, there you are, my Lord Ingraham. And fancy, Lord Penning, as well.” The Duchess, a good-natured woman with more girth than height, waved her jewel-encrusted hand in their direction.

David made his bows to the grey-haired lady. “An excellent party, your Grace. You are to be congratulated.”

Her congenial face crinkled into a smile. “Stuff! You are a charmer, my lord.”

Penning lifted an eyebrow. Evidently he didn’t think much of David’s silver-tongued abilities.

“As you both know,” the Duchess continued, “gentlemen are always in such short supply. Especially those who cast a merry leg about the floor.” She twirled a frizzy grey lock of hair around her finger, then cleared her throat. Evidently she was getting to the point of her discourse. “Would you both be so kind as to escort some of our fair English flowers to the dance floor?”

David shot a glance at Penning, ordering him to comply. “It will be our pleasure, your Grace.”

“Of course, your Grace,” Penning mumbled.

David spotted a spray of bright peacock blue ostrich feathers bobbing by the ballroom entrance. Only one lady of his acquaintance wore that particular shade of blue.

“Indeed, I see my mother’s party just now arriving. I shall ask Miss Branford for the next set.”

Although Miss Branford was dressed in a gown and scarf of drab grey, even at this distance she shone with the radiance of a natural beauty.

He couldn’t withhold his smile.

However, the Duchess was of another mind at his suggestion. Her mouth flapped open. “No, no! Lady Cowper, one of the patronesses of Almack’s is here tonight. She’s got sharp eyes and a penchant for gossip, my lord. It wouldn’t do for you to dance with your own protégée. Heaven forbid. Tongues would wag, they would. My word, how they would wag.”

“I’ll take the task on, then,” Penning was quick to interject.

With a haste that was unseemly, Penning took his leave, then scurried over to the Countess, a very fetching Lady Petunia, and the beguiling Miss Branford.

David had to admit the Duchess had the right of his particular situation. However, perhaps as the night advanced, Lady Cowper and those other relentless social arbiters lurking about the ballroom wouldn’t be as apt to censure him if he asked Miss Branford to dance.

And perhaps, if he solicited Lady Cowper’s hand for a set about the dance floor, she would be more willing to overlook his subsequent indiscretion.

He inclined his head at the Duchess. “My thanks, your grace, for your astute advice. I see an excellent example of one of our English flowers sitting patiently on yonder bench. Could you introduce me?”

“Most certainly,” was the Duchess’ loud reply. She linked arms with him, then headed toward the seated Miss Vanhorne. “I can assure you, you will not be displeased with your choice.”

With a slight frown on his face, David followed his hostess. Blast it, he was only going to dance with the young woman, not offer for her hand.

Bethany was flattered by all the unexpected attention she received at the Duchess of Margrove’s elaborate party. The quiet in her soul, however, yearned for a more tranquil setting.

None of her new swains would have understood her sentiments. Indeed, if they had been aware, they would have been perplexed for gaiety, frivolity and high spirits were the order of the evening.

It was with great relief that she turned to Lord Penning, a familiar face in the sea of black apparel surrounding her. Black — the
de rigueur
color for gentlemen in attendance.

“Bless me!” Henry wiped his affable face with a much-abused handkerchief. “I have been on the lookout for your entrance, Miss Branford. And now you are here.”

He made a small bow.

She withheld a giggle. His bow was small because there was no room to make a larger one. “It is good to see you, my lord. Lady Ingraham, Lady Petunia, and I have only just arrived.”

His dark-eyed gaze had a tendency to focus on the unseemly amount of skin exposed by her far-too-daring gown. To one who was modest, this was a mortifying experience. She discreetly adjusted the folds of her scarf.

“I say, Miss Branford. Would you do me the honor of dancing with me? Our hostess, the Duchess, has given me marching orders — dance.” He lowered his voice. “To be truthful, there is no young lady I’d rather be dancing with than you.”

Plain speaking indeed. Bethany felt herself flush. “You are too kind, sir.”“And here is our hostess, hurrying over to perform the formal introduction,” Henry added.

The Duchess fluttered an animated handkerchief as she dutifully introduced Henry to her. Bethany made a shy smile, then held out her hand.

Merging into the flow of graceful dancers for a cotillion, they were the needed fourth to complete a square set. She flinched when he stood uncomfortably close to her side. About to protest, she glanced around and realized he had no choice. The floor was filled with eager dancers.

Goodness! In truth, she’d never been in such intimate contact with a gentleman…and someone she’d just met five days ago. She felt breathless. But she had to set her trepidations aside for if she did not, she would’ve been left behind on the dance floor.

“Splendid fun, hey?” Henry panted as he laughed as if the vigorous dance was more than he could handle.