The Marquess and Miss Davies (7 page)

Heavens. Perhaps she should add it to her requirements for a rational marriage. Carys grinned to herself, trying to imagine how this might be worded.

‘Proficient in the marital arts’?

Isolde noticed the smile, and knew immediately what her sister was thinking.

“Indeed,” she said.

“Is it important, do you think?”

“It seems to be to the gentlemen.”

“La,” said Samantha, who had been around the twins often enough to be accustomed to their double conversations, “tell the rest of us.”

But Lord Walsingham and Lucien Cranfield now approached and requested that Isolde and Cicely join them for the longways. Moments later Lord Harcourt arrived at Carys’s side, along with Lord Rowley, the latter being a particular friend of Samantha’s. All four couples joined the large group on the ballroom floor and the dancers arranged themselves by fits and starts into something resembling the proper order, with complaints from the more experienced directed at the slower and more confused.

“For the love of heaven,” said someone. “‘Tis as if one had never
seen
a country dance.”

Carys and Benjamin settled into position, next to a gentleman whose partner had lost one of her slippers and was now kicking off its mate, accidentally hitting another dancer several paces away.

“I shall treasure it!” said the man who was hit, and held the slipper to his heart, to shrieks of laughter. This inspired a few other ladies to threaten to remove
their
shoes, and only with the loud protest of one of the higher-ranked gentlemen was a semblance of calm regained.

A grand London ball, as Isolde often said, was no place for the faint of heart.

The duke’s son did not waste time. “I expect shortly to see the Marquess of Clare,” Lord Harcourt told Carys, as they made their bow-and-curtsey to the head couple.

Until that moment Miss Davies could have insisted—to herself—that she had no concern for Lord Leighton’s whereabouts. Now she found her breath catching in her throat. “He is in no hurry, then,” said Carys, with a tone of indifference.

Benjamin shrugged. “A marquess rarely needs to be.”

“How fortunate for him.”

The orchestra ceased its tuning and the music proper began.

“Carys, do not dismiss the interest of such a man.”

“I do not dismiss it,” she said. “For I do not see it.”

Lord Harcourt ignored that remark. The steps of the dance parted them for several minutes, which Carys employed in imagining what she might say to the Marquess of Clare,
if
his lordship should ever choose to honour them with his presence.

* * * *

 Sometime later they had completed the first figure and were at a brief standstill, catching their breath before the next round. “I see that Isa has found an admirer in Lord Walsingham,” said Lord Harcourt.

 Carys had wondered on occasion if Benjamin Harcourt carried a tendre for her sister. It seemed possible, even though they had all known each other from childhood. “I believe she refers to him as a toad,” she told Lord Harcourt, watching for his response.

 Benjamin grinned. “I thought that was Adrian Cathorn.”

 “Ah, you are correct,” said Carys. “Let’s see ... Lord Walsingham is the cabbage.”

 That earned a laugh outright. “Oh, most unfair! ‘Tis merely an unfortunate choice in eau de Cologne. He cannot help the result.”

 Carys attempted a ladylike snort. “And why not? Every other gentleman manages to do so.” But Harcourt’s attention was suddenly on a point behind her.

 “Well my dear, ‘tis the man himself,” he said, and she turned to see the Marquess of Clare striding across the dance floor, heading in their direction.

* * * *

He was, in Carys’s mind, the most handsome man in the Lincolnshire’s ballroom. Lord Leighton was tall and well-built, with a cravat tied more simply than most, and a coat tailored to the precise fit of his shoulders, which were broad and ... Carys searched for an adequate word. ‘Imposing’, she decided. Or, ‘large’. The marquess seemed, in fact, to come from an earlier age, when the nobility were literal protectors of the commonfolk, strong men who rode into battle with swords and pikes and whatever else one rode into battle with. Men who fought for what belonged to them, and did so with their own hands.

By the time Carys had imagined the marquess in a castle—fully-armored and on the battlements, his hair flying wild about his shoulders and perhaps a bit of blood on his cheek, the result of a minor injury which one might attend to later with a warm compress and soothing words—his lordship had approached within a few steps. She thought she could have counted each muscle in his thighs. Lord Harcourt moved slightly off to one side and Carys, refusing to look in his direction, suspected that he was grinning.

“Might I have the pleasure?” asked Lord Leighton, extending his hand to Carys.

That was some cheek! “I am at present dancing with Lord Harcourt, as you can see,” she replied.

“My mother beckons,” said Lord Harcourt, without a moment’s hesitation, pointing vaguely toward the far door. “If you will excuse me, Miss Davies.”

He turned on his heel and walked off. Carys stared after him, knowing full well that this was nonsense. But Benjamin had already disappeared into the crowd, and the transaction had taken so little time that Lord Leighton’s hand was still extended.

“As you wish,” she said, rather ungraciously, and they found their proper place in the longways.

* * * *

‘Twas as if they had been at each other’s side forever. The touch of his hand spoke directly to some heretofore unknown part of her soul and she never wanted to let go. She saw herself as a fine lady, holding the compress to her lord’s forehead, cleaning the blood from his handsome, tired face and murmuring gentle words.

You ninny! she thought, and almost laughed.

Lord Leighton noticed.

“What has amused you?” he said.

‘Twas impossible to admit the truth. “I am imagining the social news,” she said. “The Marquess of Clare and Miss Isolde Davies were seen dancing together last evening, at the Lincolnshire’s ball—”

He understood the joke immediately. “I cannot imagine that you are often mistaken for your sister.”

“You would be astonished, then,” replied Carys, thinking unhappily of Mr Torvald.

But the longways parted them, and their conversation, when it next resumed, moved on to other subjects.

“What are your enjoyments in town?” asked Lord Leighton, as they were able to take a few moments arm in arm, for the promenade.

‘Twas a common question, actually, and a chance for a young miss to expound on her interests and achievements; the number of musicales she attended, the shawls knitted for the poor of London, the errands taken on behalf of elderly aunts and the rest. Ladies of the
ton
were expected to be accomplished in a variety of tasks, which annoyed her sister so much that Isolde was known to claim that she did absolutely nothing and if pressed, to say that she collected coins.

“A man considers himself
accomplished
if he is regularly bosky,” complained Isa, “and gambles more than he can afford.”

Lord Leighton waited for her reply, his eyes such a deep brown that Carys felt a moment of vertigo, as if she was falling.

“I attend the Royal Society,” she said.

“As I am aware. And—”

“And occasionally I am forced to deal with gentlemen sleeping on the front lawn of Cardingham House.”

“Occasionally, you say?” He grinned. “And I had so hoped to be the first.”

A laugh escaped her before she could think better of it. His fingers tightened fractionally on hers.

“Such gentlemen cannot take too much of your time, I hope,” he said.

“I walk in Green Park,” said Carys, almost surprising herself with the honest answer. She did not usually admit to the activity.

“Do you not ride?”

Ride! Miss Davies was only half aware that a small, heartfelt sigh escaped her lips.

“Perhaps soon,” she admitted, and to change the subject— “And I assume you have other activities as well, my lord,” she said, adding—”when you are not sleeping on lawns.”

He did not answer for a short moment. “I do as little in London as possible,” he said finally.

Another member of the idle nobility, thought Carys, who was familiar with the species, but the description did not fit him, somehow, and ‘twas only later that she realized that Lord Leighton’s remark might have a second meaning, one which was entirely different.

* * * *

The Marquess of Clare was entirely frustrated. One dance only, one of the those long and dreary country minuets that seemed to last for hours without giving a gentleman more than moments to speak with his partner.

His kingdom for a waltz, thought Anthony, and began to imagine his hand against Miss Carys Davies’s elegant back, his fingertips perhaps brushing one shoulder blade and settling into the curve of her waist.

Gods. Once his mind had veered in that direction ‘twas likely to remain. The waltz must wait, and Lord Leighton focused his attention, determinedly, on the dance, with its quick succession of steps and turns. He made one young woman giggle as he spun her
con brio,
exposing a flash of delicate ankle. He imagined Miss Carys Davies to possess ankles of even greater worth.

How could she be so indifferent to him?

Lord Leighton was of course wrong on this account, but the mistake was understandable. A wealthy and handsome marquess? It seemed that every
ton
miss of marriageable age, and a fair number who were not, had flirted with him at one point or another, batting eyelashes, brushing against him with décolletage amply on view, and occasionally making offers of a startling nature.

Although such offers were generally the province of the young widows. Lord Leighton still had vivid memories of an interlude with Lady Blakemoor on the Spencer’s garden terrace; he had been a stripling just down from Christ Church at Oxford, and she was recently out of mourning for a husband many years her senior. Lady Blakemoor had promised him everything at her disposal quite in advance of a wedding, if any, and when he had at first turned down her suggestion, blushing madly, she had merely laughed and drawn him deeper into the shadows.

All of which went to say, only, that he was unused to any degree of standoffishness in the fairer sex. He found himself growing a bit piqued that Miss Davies had not thrown herself at his feet.

* * * *

Carys told herself that she would not accept a second dance with the man, but when it came to it she had no opportunity to refuse.

As he never asked.

Annoyance went to war with relief. If Lord Leighton was as interested in her as Benjamin claimed, why was he not first in line for the waltz? That honor went to Baron Leith, a charming older gentleman who affected a monocle on a silk ribbon and was only a little taller than Carys herself. Fortunately, he danced well, and she was able to relax as they swung around the room.

And then she saw them.

The Marquess of Clare was waltzing with Isolde.

It could not be helped.

Isa had no chance to confer with her sister before accepting Lord Leighton’s hand for the waltz. Nor had she any chance to tell Carys that his lordship certainly did not mistake the one for the other, which she knew was what her sister would immediately think, and which would bother her more than anything else.

“Miss Isolde?” Lord Leighton said, suddenly at her side only moments before the orchestra began the first notes of a slow Viennese
lander
. She had been paying less attention than usual to the crowd around her; truth to tell, she’d been wondering if the marquess would be dancing again with Carys. Two dances, thought Isa;
that
should convince her twin.

But then she saw Carys on the arm of Baron Leith. And here, with his hand outstretched, was the marquess.

She took the hand, unwilling to lose this opportunity to know him better, and even more unwilling to send him on his way to dance with some other of London’s eager, husband-hungry chits. And he waltzed marvelously. They swung around the room in perfect harmony, with the small twists and variations in their path marking Lord Leighton as an excellent dancer. None of those safe, boring circles preferred by lesser men.

But ‘twas her partner’s conversation that held the most interest for Isolde.

“I trust,” she said immediately, “that you would like better to be partnered with the other Miss Davies.”

“Ah,” said Lord Leighton. He raised his eyebrows in question, an expression that made him so boyishly attractive that Isolde almost grinned.

Yes, she thought, you will do for her quite well.

“I hope you do not think me too forward,” said the marquess, “but—”

Isa interrupted him. “Where my sister’s welfare is concerned,” she said, smiling her widest, most knowing smile, “that would not be possible.”

“I am glad.” He seemed to relax slightly. “I cannot seem to tell if she finds me objectionable in some way.”

“Ah. Other than your appearance foxed and asleep at our doorstep?”

A quick dip and change of direction. “I don’t believe I was ... reclining so close to the house,” replied Lord Leighton, “but I take your meaning. Does she have a particular horror of drink?”

This might have proved a difficulty in the
ton
, where a fine gentleman was expected to be boisterous from time to time, and a fine lady to appreciate it. “I do not believe so,” said Isa, speaking honestly. Carys was no puritan.

“So she could forgive the transgression in time.”

“Carys’s nature is not grudging.” Isa hesitated and drew a deep breath. “But one might ask, your lordship, has there been occasion when you woke up and found yourself not on an unfamiliar lawn—but in an unfamiliar bed?”

These were bold words even for her, and Lord Leighton’s smile faltered.

“I beg your pardon, of course,” added Isa, “but I am only trying to save us all a great deal of time and trouble.”