The Marquess and Miss Davies (23 page)

Lord Leighton grinned to himself, the smile touched with rue. Now the shoe is on the other foot, he thought. And you shan’t like it any better than Benjamin did. Brothers are such a nuisance!

She was lovely and brave and would make a fine marchioness.

* * * *

Carys could have sworn her sister was not truly ill. She’d seen Isolde ill with fever, and ‘twas not at all the same. Perhaps her twin really had taken too much of Lady Pickerel’s madeira, although Carys seemed to remember that Isa always turned up her nose at the stuff.

Oh, well. The morning was beautiful and she intended to enjoy a long ride with Alcaeus, who seemed to be complaining that Jesse did not accompany them.

“I cannot help it,” she told the stallion. “Miss Isolde is off her oats.”

The horse snorted.

“My feelings exactly.”

Hyde Park, thought Miss Davies, was in rare form that morning. The trees were in their full, late spring glory, the grass was cool and damp from the dew, and birds were everywhere. She gave Alcaeus his head and they galloped for some time. And she did not entirely forget about the Marquess of Clare, but she did lose herself, as always, in the speed and the strength of her horse, in his hoof beats and flying mane. The London parks were not so bad, really, when one took everything into consideration.

A sudden thought came to her, then, as they pounded across the turf.

She did not want to return to Cornwall. She did not want to spend her days at Pencarrow, not even as a welcome and much-beloved aunt.

She wanted her own life. Wherever that might be.

And it all came down to a ball. One of society’s favorite events, to be sure, but one in which the avowed purpose of dance and entertainment was forever intermixed with the very serious business of making connections, romantic or otherwise. A marriage could be arranged at a ball. A reputation could be lost.

The ball in question was being given at the home of Lord and Lady Charing. ‘Twas only a medium-sized affair, but one which all interested parties would attend. Lord Harcourt had seen to it.

* * * *

Isolde did not ask Carys again about the poet’s letter, and could only hope that her sister never bothered to read the thing to the end. Carys apparently knew nothing about the dedication, and Isa preferred to keep it that way.

Lady Reggie agreed.

“Goodness,” said Talfryn’s wife, when Isolde found her in the nursery. Taliesin was teething, gnawing happily on one of Cook’s biscuits—specially over-baked just for him—and drooling on his mother’s skirts. “Lord Brabury really has written another one. I was hoping ‘twas only a conceit.”

Isa was holding her newly purchased copy of
Fondest Dreams
, which she now gave to Reggie. Her sister-in-law leafed quickly through the pages.

“Don’t look,” said Isolde—to Tally.

“Yes,” said Reggie. “It’s fortunate he can’t read.” Then— “Oh!”

“Exactly.”

“Oh, dear lord. We mustn’t tell your brother.”

“You know he’ll find out.”

“Yes, but—” Regina frowned. “Will the marquess care, do you think?”

“If he does, he’s unworthy of her.”

“And you say that his sister sent you a note?”

“Lady Bainborough brought the matter to my attention, yes. She thinks we should plan a response in common, and she suggests making as light of it as possible. The unworldly poet, who always has his head in the clouds, that sort of thing.”

“Well...” Lady Reggie bit her lip. “Between our family, the countess, and the Marquess of Clare we might make it work. Still—”

“Don’t forget that we are also attempting to keep it from Carys’s notice.”

“I doubt that will be possible for long. But I simply cannot think of what else to do.”

* * * *

Her twin was being unusually insistent on the matter of a gown, thought Carys.

“This one, perhaps,” Isa was muttering, from inside one of the wardrobes. “No, the sleeves are ridiculous. Perhaps this—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s the Charing’s ball. Hardly a court presentation.”

“One must look one’s best.”

Carys sighed. “And every benighted day, at that.”

“Oh, I’ll give you the days. It’s the evenings that are my concern.”

“Lud.”

“Lord Leighton will attend.”

“I will be lucky,” said Carys, “if our brother allows me out of his sight long enough for a greeting.”

“Ah!” said Isa, emerging from the wardrobe with a peach silk.

Her sister was surprised. The gown in question was undeniably beautiful, and she could almost feel the smooth silk against her ankles as she moved through a waltz, but the neckline was decidedly modest.

“I thought you were in favour of presenting my charms, as it were, on a platter.”

“Not always,” said Isolde, waving a hand. “Let there be some mystery.”

“Fine,” said Carys, accepting the gown. “I love it. Are we done?”

* * * *

The dress really did become her, thought Miss Davies. She and Isa descended from the viscount’s carriage—in company with Talfryn and Lady Regina, their mother having chosen not to attend—and the peach silk seemed to glow in the evening’s torchlight. Lord and Lady Charing greeted the guests in a grand foyer, which contained a great many mirrors.

Carys tried not to look at herself in any of them. She knew her colour was high. The Marquess of Clare would be at the ball tonight; she hoped she could smile and converse and dance as she always did. She hoped that she would not give the impression of a schoolgirl with her first crush.

They made their way to a broad staircase leading up to the ballroom.

“Retrieve your wits,” said Isa suddenly, “from wherever they’ve fled. Remember what happened to Lady Lynton.”

That lady had tripped on this same staircase some months ago. She had landed back at her starting point in a puddle of silk and the
ton
had talked of nothing else for a week.

“Lady Lynton is rarely sober.”

“Still.”

Clarys made the effort, and the twins arrived at the dance floor safely, only to find that Talfryn and Lady Regina were already lost in the crowd.

“Drat,” said Isa. “I cannot keep an eye out for our brother if I don’t know where he is.”

“When will he arrive, do you suppose?”
Not
referring to the viscount.

“I would not be surprised if he has arrived already.”

“But—”

“Do stop looking so anxious. Here is Lady Ponsonby.”

That elderly lady stopped to greet them, with her usual critical eye. “I can approve of your dress this evening,” she said, addressing Carys. “But Miss Isolde Davies, on the other hand—”

Her sister was showing considerable decolletage.

“You are too correct, ma’am,” said Isa cheerfully. “I’m impossible.”

Lady Ponsonby harrumphed.

“Indeed, madam, indeed. I shall give myself a good talking to.”

Lady Ponsonby was incapable of detecting sarcasm. She nodded and seemed happier.

“I can’t understand her objection,” said Carys, when the woman had left. “‘Tis entirely the fashion.”

“I believe young women in her day,” replied Isolde, “were expected to be demure and biddable, and nothing else.”

“That’s just the thing,” said her sister. “They weren’t. Lady Bessborough says—oh, there is Lord Brabury.”

“Our poet? Good heavens.” Isolde did not seem happy at the discovery.

“We must greet him. He seems more popular than usual tonight.”

“Dearest, I believe I require a small repair to my gown,” said Isa.

“But—”

“Truly.”

* * * *

Since the ‘small repair’ was no more than the odd bit of lace which required a thread clipped, Isolde was not able to keep her sister away from the ballroom for long, and at any rate Isa knew they could not stay hidden away forever. It had been more a moment to gather her thoughts, and avoid the poet.

For heaven’s sake, where had Lady Regina gone? They would need her support if gossip began.

Isolde had noticed nothing as yet; no sideways glances, no particular attention paid to either her or Carys. But the poet—and there he was again, over by the largish potted palm—seemed both unavoidable and unaccountably popular. Lord Brabury had been the least social of creatures before his poetry had caught the
ton’s
attention.

Having nearly given up on Reggie, Isa kept a sharp eye out for the marquess’s sister, or even Lord Harcourt. Someone to help her navigate what might soon become treacherous waters.

“What is wrong?” asked Carys.

Of course her sister could tell. Of course she could. Isa thought for one wild moment of explaining everything; the unread letter, the dedication, the book of poetry. Then she saw Lord Leighton approach, and she sighed in relief.

“Miss Davies,” said the marquess.

“‘Tis lovely to see you, Lord Leighton,” said Isolde. “Carys, dear, I do think Cicely Vale is waving at me. With your leave—”

She walked away.

They did not dance. The orchestra was playing the accompaniment to a longways, and couples crowded into the center of the floor, but Miss Davies and Lord Leighton remained at the periphery, her fingers on his arm, their shoulders quite close, not looking at each other. They made an admirable couple; the marquess quite tall, the top of Miss Davies’s head reaching just above his chin, her long curls cascading down so that perhaps, if she moved just
so
, a lock or two might fall over his lordship’s arm.

All Carys could think of was how much she wished to feel Lord Leighton’s fingers running through her hair. And she was not unaware that Lord Leighton’s thoughts ran in a similar direction.

The marquess, in truth, was nearly at the point of counting the hours before they could be wed.

“You are the most beautiful woman in the room,” said Lord Leighton, very quietly.

Miss Davies felt herself blush. “I thought that honour was generally accorded to her grace,” she said lightly, nodding in the direction of the Duchess of Wessex, blue-eyed and all blonde ringlets.

“She is pretty enough, I suppose. But dear Amelie sits very badly on a horse.”

“Ah, most unfair! You expect perfection of our poor sex!”

“And why not? As I have certainly found it.”

Carys had no reply. There was a tension between them, but ‘twas not unpleasant. Her fingers on his arm trembled and she felt each breath he took.

“Miss Davies,” said his lordship, after a few minutes. “I should like to call on you tomorrow.”

Carys looked up at him and saw everything in his eyes. Now she expected her heart to beat faster, the trembling to increase; perhaps, heaven forbid, she would even faint. Instead she experienced a sudden calm. ‘Twas a feeling that coursed with her blood to every fiber of her body, leaving all hesitation behind, all doubt washed away.

“Of course,” she told his lordship. “I will be most happy for your visit.”

No more needed to be said.

* * * *

Isolde watched her sister and the marquess, and nodded in satisfaction. Thank goodness that’s settled, she thought. Now if Lord Brabury could just restrain himself from writing any more clever dedications.

But the poet was presently in the middle of a small group of young men, and she saw—

Good heavens. There was Talfryn, approaching the poet. And her brother did not look happy.

Drat it all, thought Isa, where is Lady Regina? But almost before she could begin to search the crowd, looking for a distinctive gown of emerald silk—her sister-in-law had excellent taste, and wore bold colours beautifully—that lady arrived at her side, breathless.

“What has happened?” asked Isolde.

“The word is out,” said Reggie. “‘Tis that ... that bird wit, Penelope Briskin. She is apparently on excellent terms with Lady Walcott.”

Isa groaned. In a town full of inveterate gossips, Lady Walcott was one of the most enthusiastic, and no regard of discretion or charity had—to anyone’s notice—ever slowed her tongue.

“Well, the fox is loose among the chickens,” came a voice behind them.

Isa turned with Lady Regina to see the Countess of Chalcroft.

“He has all but proposed,” said Isolde.

“Yes, I saw that,” said Josephine.

“Really?” said Lady Reggie, the only one of the three who had not been watching Carys and the marquess. “But that’s wonderful!”

Lady Bainborough had no time for congratulations. “I will go deal with Lady Walcott,” said the countess, “if one or the other of you can manage Viscount Cardingham. He looks displeased.”

“Yes,” said Reggie. “Of course.”

Josephine did not hesitate further, having located the gossip in question, and Lady Regina hurried off in her husband’s direction. Isolde was left to herself only momentarily, however; Lord Harcourt soon arrived. He was, quite uncharacteristically, frowning.

“Oh, gods,” said Isa. “Now what?”

“They are nearly engaged,” said Benjamin.

Isa rolled her eyes. “Why does everyone state the obvious?” she said.

“But in the meantime Lady Walcott has told Lord Brisby that your sister is the ‘geminate muse’, and there is some speculation among the young men concerning the poet’s affair.”

“There was no affair!”

“I know that. But if one expects London society to ignore the more idiotic bits of gossip—”

 “—one is bound to be disappointed, yes. What can we do?”

“The sooner the engagement is announced, the better. I’m sure some other scandal will catch the
ton’
s attention within a week or two.”

Isolde glared at him. “There is no scandal. No-one has done anything scandalous.”

Benjamin grinned suddenly. “Have you read the book?” he said. “I’d say
someone
has.”

Isolde blushed. She’d read a few pages of the newest volume, which was even more ... evocative than the first.

Lord Harcourt chuckled. “See?” he said.

“Lord Brabury’s flights of imagination have nothing to do with my sister.”

At that moment both of them noticed that the soon-to-be-happy couple was no longer standing together and that, in fact, Lord Leighton was headed off in some unknown direction while Carys was nearly at Isa’s side. She seemed a bit unsteady on her feet, but her face shone with joy.