Chapter Four

A lthough colloquially known as Lady Andini’s ball, in fact, the event was hosted by the Earl of Atherton and his wife. Lady Andini was his sister. The title was a courtesy. She had married an Italian aristocrat, who swept her off her feet, begat his heir, and then died in a boating accident. Lady Andini spent three years with her Italian in-laws before homesickness and other things brought her home. The grandparents claimed the child, which was the saddest, cruelest thing Georgiana could imagine. Lady Andini had visited often until Bonaparte made it impossible to do so. The poor woman must be devastated.

Nevertheless, there was the ball.

Seated together in the ducal carriage, Alice glowed with anticipation, Georgiana suppressed her nervous fidgets, and the duke and duchess smiled at the girls—and each other—fondly.

“You remember our first dance,” her father said, his hand on his wife’s knee. They made a handsome couple even now. Mama’s skin was unlined. Her figure had remained slender. Father was heavier than he looked in old family portraits but still had all of his hair. And that light in his eyes.

“Of course. You broke my toe.”

Alice’s eyes widened, but Georgiana laughed. She’d heard the story before. She’d heard most of their stories. She settled back to hear this one again. Their low voices murmured together, teasing, enjoying their memories. Enjoying each other.

This was what Georgiana wanted. This. Something incalculably rare in aristocratic marriages. Love. Passionate and companionate. They’d had three children together—Randolph, Georgiana, and Charles; and even after Randolph’s tragic death nearly a decade ago, their bond remained unbreakable. Even after twenty-five years together, her parents still cherished one another. It was not unusual to walk into a room and find them tête-à-tête, discussing something in the newspaper, or some bill Father favored, or some improvements they wished to make at Sayles.

Even more, they kissed one another. Regularly. She suspected whatever went on between a man and wife in private still did, since unlike many couples, they shared a bedroom. And a bed.

Only once, that she could recollect, had she heard them fight. She’d been eleven years old. A terrible age to be. It was two years after Randolph’s accident, and Mama was beginning, slowly, to emerge from mourning. Perhaps that was why the raised voices had made such an impression. Or perhaps it was because they had argued about her.

Looking back, it hadn’t been an argument. Merely a minor disagreement. Easily settled.

Georgiana forced her thoughts back to the present. To Lord Taverston. There was nothing wrong with the man. But there was something not right about him either. None of the men who had courted her had had that something right. And she felt rather grumpily resentful of her parents for making her expect that that something should be there.

Their carriage rolled into the long drive. The Athertons’ London home was located a short distance from St. James Square and had all the requisite flourishes to recommend it, more brick than marble, but there was some intricate plasterwork on the facade. The gardens in the back were extraordinary and would be even more beautiful when the weather warmed and Lady Atherton held her outdoor teas.

When it stopped, some distance from the steps leading to the front door, they exited the carriage and followed the line of visitors into the house. They were not early, but there was no chance she would miss the first set. There was plenty of time to visit the ladies’ drawing room to take care of necessities and make sure everything was in place after being squashed into a carriage. Jeanette had been sent on ahead with Mother’s Fabienne—French ladies’ maids were de rigeur —to enter through the servants’ door and wait in the drawing room with other ladies’ maids. Georgiana knew they would sit and gossip, perhaps partake of cake and tea brought to them there, and wait for their mistresses to require something of them. They would be dismissed sometime after midnight.

Jeanette would be waiting at home for the girls’ return. She’d help them out of their gowns, undo their hair, and see to it that the gowns were brushed, and any spots attended to. She’d be working long after her employers fell asleep and would rise before they woke. All that waiting. Imagine what Jeanette would think if she heard Georgiana complaining the ton’s entertainments were dull.

After they greeted their hosts, Father went off in one direction and the ladies in the other.

“I hope Jeanette can help me,” Alice murmured. “My garter twisted, and I fear I’m about to lose a stocking.”

“She’ll fix it,” Georgiana assured her as they climbed a spiraling set of stairs. “Jeanette can work wonders.” A part of the braidwork on her dress had folded in on itself, spoiling the optical effect, and the abigail had spent at least an hour last night steaming it back into shape.

“These are pretty, aren’t they?” Alice said, gesturing to the portraits that graced the walls in an echoing spiral. That was new. The paintings must have been moved from elsewhere. It was the most original portrait gallery she’d ever come across. But something was off. Disorienting. She found herself counting both steps and portraits as she climbed. Calculating. Yes, the numbers were wrong. They had been hung without the proper helical proportions. How lazy.

How irritating.

“Is something amiss?” Alice asked.

“No, nothing,” she said hurriedly, hoping Mama, just two steps ahead, had not heard the question. Alice didn’t understand Georgiana’s fascination with mathematics but didn’t judge her for it the way Mama did. Of course, Alice had quirks of her own—reading newspapers in their entirety and political pamphlets from cover to cover, but not calculations of sums or observing mathematical elements in ordinary things. “It’s only that one cannot stop and gaze upon the pictures as one can in a regular hall.”

Alice giggled and pointed to one. “Maybe that’s the point.”

The elderly gentleman in a soldier’s redcoat and powdered wig had a nose the shape of an anvil and was nearly the size of one. It broke the spell. Georgiana laughed too.

They found the drawing room where they straightened their garments. Georgiana thought Mama would shoo them off, but no. She followed them back down to the ballroom, where Father joined them. Mama looked about the rapidly filling room, then nodded grimly.

“I see Viscount Haslet, Alice. He’s a reliable sort. But far too old for you, I think.”

“He was just being kind, Your Grace. I have no expectations in that direction.”

Mama’s expression softened. Then she narrowed her eyes and continued searching.

Father said, “I don’t see Lord Taverston yet. Ah, wait. There he is. Bothering Sir Plodgett.” A strange look of amusement flitted over his face. “I’d like to have heard what he said.”

“What? Why?” Sir Plodgett was not in their set.

“No reason. Just I can see Plodgett’s eyes bulging from here. Oh. Lord Taverston has noticed you.” He elbowed Georgiana and Alice as though they were tavern bawds. “Do you see him? Look toward the east door. Here he comes.”

Georgiana complained nervously, “Father, I certainly hope you don’t intend to narrate the whole evening.”

“He is striding this way. Looking side to side. Smiling—”

“Stop!” She flushed with mortification and the effort not to laugh. “Someone will hear you.”

“Is that the best smile he can manage? It is more of a grimace.”

“Mama! Tell him to stop!”

Alice’s fit of giggles was not helping matters.

“Oh, well. He has been waylaid by Lady Drakemore. That woman. She’ll be angling for him to secure a dance with that daughter of hers.”

“Miss Christine is lovely!” Mama protested.

“Yes, she is. He should dance with her, of course. I’ll stop teasing now. He’ll be here any moment.”

Lord Haslet reached them first and nodded a greeting to the Duke before exclaiming, “Ah! What a sight. The three loveliest women in the room. Your Grace. Lady Georgiana. Miss Fogbotham.” He bowed to each of them in turn. Then to Alice, “What a perfect shade of blue your dress is. It makes your eyes look even greener and green eyes are, by far, the prettiest.”

Alice blushed. “Thank you, my lord. You’re very kind.”

It was gentlemanly of him to direct his attention to Alice at her very first ball, standing in Georgiana’s shadow.

Lord Taverston was not as considerate. “Hovington. Your Grace. Lord Haslet. Lady Georgiana.” He nodded and mumbled something like, “milady,” making it evident he’d forgotten Alice’s name. Then he turned directly to Georgiana.

“How prescient of me to have secured the first dance with the most beautiful lady here. I’ll be the envy of every man in the ton.”

“Congratulations. I know that’s important to you,” Hazard drawled. “And Lady Georgiana, you will have performed your charitable deed for the day.”

To his credit, Lord Taverston laughed. “Miss Fogbotham,” he redeemed himself by remembering, “Do take care of your shoulders. Hazard had been known to steer his partners into walls.”

“Only once,” Hazard said mildly. “And it was the lesser of two catastrophes. Shall we take a turn about the room? If we subject the Duchess to any more of our foolishness, she is likely to tuck the young ladies under her wings and bundle them home.”

Lord Taverston offered his arm. “Will you?”

Georgiana nodded. She and Lord Taverston led, with Hazard and Alice walking behind. The ballroom was expansive, with a checkerboard pattern of marble flooring and high ceilings glittering with chandeliers. It opened onto a terrace. Or would when the weather warmed. Tonight the glass doors were covered with shutters. A small orchestra had set up just to the side. They had been tuning their instruments and, from the sound of it, were nearly ready to begin.

“That is a beautiful color on you.”

“Hmm? Oh, thank you,” she said. She hoped he would not say it complemented her eyes.

“It makes your eyes glow.”

“Thank you.” There must be a book men memorized. “I think the music will be starting soon. There is Lady Andini with the Earl.”

He tucked her arm closer under his and watched with her. The Earl presented his sister, who welcomed them all and bade them enjoy themselves. Georgiana knew she would dance the first set with her brother but would not dance again.

The first strains of a lively country dance called to them, and they formed up their lines.

“Do you enjoy dancing?” Lord Taverston asked, putting his hands on his hips, and performing the opening steps with easy grace.

“I have heard that there are people who do not, but I have never met one of these strange creatures.”

He smiled: white, straight teeth and a dimple on one side. They circled one another.

“I have. I’m related to one.”

“Really?” She had to laugh. “I do beg pardon for calling your relative a strange creature.”

“My brother.”

“Which one?”

They separated. She faced Lord Ralston. He had taken her on two carriage rides but had not pursued her further. They exchanged smiles and breathless pleasantries until she returned to Lord Taverston.

“Reginald. The younger. Youngest, I should say.”

“He doesn’t dance?”

“Well, he must, mustn’t he, being a gentleman?

Surely he’d told this story many times over. He timed it well with the steps. They touched hands to approach. His hands were warm even through their gloves. They backed away.

“But I fear it brings back painful memories.” Taverston still smiled, but his eyes looked strained. Distracted.

“My word. How painful? Perhaps you shouldn’t be telling.”

“What? No. I’m sorry. I lost my…footing.”

He hadn’t. But they parted again. And she faced Dunstun. He stepped woodenly, stone-faced. She managed to keep her smile. Then went back to Taverston.

“Man’s a pigwidgeon,” he said, very low, as they circled one another. So he’d kept his eye on her.

“Perhaps he has painful memories.”

“I’m certain he does. Well, Reginald’s are of a different sort. You see, as eldest, I was the first to be subjected to the dancing master. At thirteen. I was still stumbling along when Crispin joined me a year later.”

“Stumbling?”

They parted. She saw he was now gliding along with Alice, who was smiling at something he said.

Back to her, he continued, “Oh, I stumbled. Crispin, surprisingly, was a natural.”

“Why surprisingly?”

“You’ll see when you meet him.”

Oh. They touched hands. He smiled, a little abashed. He had very blue eyes.

“I hope you will meet him, I should have said.”

They swirled and swirled. Then slowed to begin again.

“The dancing master was a sadist. Crispin and I had to learn with brooms for partners, until Rudolfo—”

“That was not his name!” She laughed again.

“It is what we called him. He finally decided we were ready to dance with a female. We were breathless with anticipation.”

She had to wait for their final steps together for the climax of the story.

“Well,” he said, returning to her. “It was his great aunt. But in the end, we learned.” He bowed to her as the dance concluded.

“I can say nothing about Lord Crispin, but Rudolfo taught you well. Yet Lord Reginald found it too painful?”

Lord Taverston took her arm and led her to the side of the room.

“Crispin is two years younger than I. Reginald is six. We made sure he was terrified of the dancing master. When his turn came around, he flat-out refused. Stubborn brat.” Lord Taverston laughed at the memory. “He took a caning rather than a lesson. We were horrified by what we had wrought. Well, I was. So we told Father that Rudolfo was useless and that we would teach Reg ourselves. He threw up his hands and allowed it. I don’t think he had been impressed with the man either, but gentlemen must learn to dance.”

“But if your brother didn’t suffer the dancing master, why does he hate to dance?”

“Crispin’s fault. He gave the first lesson. I caught on to his game and did the same.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Did you teach him false steps?”

“We taught him to follow.” The words were delivered straight-faced, but she nevertheless caught his blue eyes twinkling.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake.”

“He was—I commend him for it—excellent at the lady’s parts.”

“You are horrible. Your poor little brother.”

“We praised him, of course. After several weeks, we beckoned my mother in to see how well we’d taught him. Crispin played a fine waltz on the piano and Mother and Reginald both just stood there, arms on waists and shoulders, each waiting for the other to lead.”

“I hope your father caned you both.”

“He was laughing too hard.”

She giggled. It was a mean joke, but no real harm had been done.

“He did learn, of course. Eventually. The poor sod. It’s much harder to learn to do something right after having learned to do it well, wrong.”

“I still maintain you are horrid. My sympathies lie entirely with your brother.”

He smiled. Yet there was something, something tired, in his face. “Quite rightly. Lady Georgiana, have you been engaged for the next set? Must I deliver you somewhere?”

“Back to the Duchess would be fine, thank you.”

“If you have not promised the next dance, will you walk with me for a few moments in the garden?”

She should have given him the haughty look that Mama had taught her to let him know, without words, that he had crossed the line. Single ladies and gentlemen did not monopolize one another’s company at balls. He knew that. People would talk. But he looked so concerned, and his voice was so earnest, that she nodded.

“A few moments.”

He steered her toward the door. She did not look to see if her mother was watching. Certainly, she was, and Georgiana would receive a dressing down later.

The gardens were well-lit with paper lanterns. And many people were taking advantage of the cooling air after the warmth of the dance, so they were hardly alone. She let him escort her down a side path, but not far down it. He kicked aside a small stone, his face drooping.

“You must be thinking me ill-mannered indeed.”

“I confess, I am. This is not at all the thing. You have something you wish to say to me?”

He would not propose to her now. Here. No one was as ill-mannered as that. But if he did, she could justifiably say no.

“Only that I would, naturally, have sent a tastelessly large bouquet tomorrow morning, with a variety of blooms, all in that gorgeous shade of pink you’re wearing tonight.” He looked rueful. “I imagine you are accustomed to men paying such dubious tributes to your charms.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgment of the fact. It surprised her to hear that men recognized how ridiculous they were. But maybe not all men did. Maybe there was something a little special about this one. She should not dismiss the possibility out of hand.

“And I would, of course, request your company on a ride in the park within a day or two. My curricle should impress you. And I’m a dab hand with the ponies.”

“I don’t doubt it.” And she expected there were seats in the Earl’s box at the theater that she and Alice and Mama would be invited to share for an evening. She did not say that, did not put into words the rote nature of being courted. She did not say that she already knew the conversations they would have. They would enumerate for one another their close family members, with an amusing anecdote or two about them. He had checked that box already. He would ask her favorite flower and wear it in his buttonhole at the next ton function. He might ask her which composers she particularly enjoyed if he was musical. They would not discuss politics or social ills or, God forbid, physical ones. All this in the course of five, perhaps six invitations, after which he would have to decide whether to pursue her or retreat.

Or if he was particularly bold, he would offer for her then.

How was this enough preparation for a lifetime together? For anyone?

She saw Lord Taverston’s obvious qualities. She liked that he could laugh at himself. But she did not know him. Nor would she know him in four weeks or eight. Not by spending twenty minutes at a time with him, chaperoned, saying all the right things. She could look at his smile, his mouth, and appreciate that it was pleasant to look at, but had no wish to kiss it.

What was it that made a person think: yes, this is the one ?

“Lady Georgiana? This is excruciatingly difficult.”

“What is, Lord Taverston?” Good Heavens. He looked harassed. Was he about to suggest they dispense with the preliminaries and settle for one another? Since they would likely end up doing so in the end?

“I’m leaving London. I should not have come here tonight, I think.” He spoke all in a rush. “In fact, I’m leaving directly, which will cause talk, and I apologize in advance for any embarrassment it may cause you.” How very melodramatic he was. If he had simply left, without dragging her out here, no one would have any reason to talk. Now it would look as if they had quarreled.

“My lord, I am entering this tale in the middle. Please explain. Unless it is too private to discuss, in which case, I beg to be returned to the Duchess immediately.”

“We had word a few hours ago from Chaumbers. The Earl has suffered a relapse of his previous illness. My mother and Reginald have already left for the country.”

She gasped. “I am so sorry!” Her thoughts had been ungenerous. The poor unfortunate family. “Naturally, you must go.”

“I don’t know when I might return. It will depend upon…so many things.”

“Go. I’m sure that any commitments here can wait.”

“Yes, but.” He looked toward the garden wall. “Well, you see where this leaves me.”

She frowned. He could not mean to imply that she was a commitment. That was unfair. It was too soon.

“I am not, of course, going to ask you to wait upon my return.” He practically muttered the words, as if thinking aloud rather than speaking to her. “For your flowers and your curricle ride. Or my…attentions. But I would not have wanted you to think…”

“That one dance with me had sent you scampering off to the country?”

He raised his eyes to hers and his lips twitched. “Something like that.”

How stupid. He should have sent word to her saying he could not make it to the ball. Did he imagine she would be heartbroken? “Go, Lord Taverston. You should have gone with—” She halted and felt herself flush at her own impertinence. “I beg your pardon. That is not my place to say.”

“Of course, I should have!” He scowled. “But my father did not want us rushing to his—what we perceive to be—his deathbed. Mother believes it would frighten him if we all act as though we expect him to die. The doctors have told us not to alarm him. He is not to exert himself…” His hands had been dancing expressively until he forcibly dropped them to his side. “And I am unpardonably burdening you with my frustration.”

His frustration and concern were clearly genuine. She warmed to this side of him more than to his amusing, politely flirtatious facade. But given the slightness of their acquaintance, it was true that he should not have “burdened” her with any unpleasantness at a ball. Similarly, she was well aware that it would be improper for her to respond with anything beyond polite, detached sympathy.

“Don’t worry about that. It must be very distressing. I cannot imagine being in your shoes.”

“You’re very kind.” His voice was stilted. “I do regret leaving London just now.”

“You’ll regret it more if you do not go.”

He sighed. “I should escort you back indoors.”

Then he drew back his shoulders and the pain on his face was replaced by a more congenial mask that she expected he would wear until he was on the road to Iversley.