Chapter Twenty-One

Morvoren

The day of the ball came around far sooner than Morvoren had expected. The Cornwall of Nanpean Cove felt far away, and her old world had receded into a distant memory, almost as though it were nothing but a half-remembered dream. This, even though it was in truth her past, was the world she inhabited now.

They'd spent the last few days at dancing practice every afternoon, and she'd improved enormously, at last being able to claim that instead of two left feet, she had a left and a right—most of the time. She'd also stopped causing chaos by forgetting which way she was meant to go at vital moments. Although, there being only the four of them and some chairs to take the place of the other dancers, this was no guarantee that she wouldn't go to pieces on a real dance floor populated by real people who might do unexpected things.

"You can just walk the dance steps if you're not sure of them on the night," Kit said by way of consolation, after she'd trodden on his foot for the umpteenth time. "A lot of people do that, you know."

His cheery mood persisted, and Morvoren had found herself looking forward to their afternoons all morning long, even when out riding first thing with Ysella, and definitely when she was sitting reading aloud while Lady Ormonde and a reluctant Ysella sewed. "I wish she'd let me read aloud instead of having to sew for that dratted baby," Ysella hissed when her mother's attention was elsewhere.

The new gowns arrived on the day before the ball, packed in tissue in large, flat boxes and delivered by a boy driving a small governess cart. The promised baskets of food were loaded onto this cart and dispatched back with the boy with strict instructions that they were to go to the three little seamstress's families, and not the Misses Sedgewick's shop. Ysella and Morvoren, who'd overseen the packing of the baskets themselves, also gave the boy the large package of sweetmeats and two bunches of hothouse flowers for the girls' employers.

"Don't forget to tell the girls' families that if they are in need of any further assistance they only have to ask," Morvoren said, deciding boldness was a good move. After all, Kit seemed predisposed to help those in need and had acquiesced to her earlier idea.

At the last minute, Ysella surprised Morvoren by bringing out three of her old china dolls, all beautifully clad in the silk gowns of a bygone era, and adding them to the baskets. "For their little sisters, who they are bound to have, that they may have as much joy from playing with them as I have had." She beamed. "These two I inherited from Derwa and Meliora, but this one, Agnes, was mine from new. Time for them all to have new homes now I'm a woman grown."

They spent the day of the ball quietly at home. "No riding or dancing practice for you girls today," Lady Ormonde decreed. "And a nap in the afternoon because balls can go on until dawn, even in the country. Can't have you hiding yawns behind your fans. That wouldn't be at all attractive to young gentlemen."

Morvoren had to press her lips together to prevent herself passing comment on this last remark.

Dinner at six was a simple affair, and as soon as it was over, everyone retired to their rooms to take their time over preparing for the ball.

"No need to rush," Ysella said as the girls parted in the corridor. "I doubt anything much will begin until after ten."

"Don't forget that Denby is ten miles distant," her mother, who had paused at her own bedroom door, put in. "It will take us over an hour to get there so we'll need to leave before nine. I shall expect you girls downstairs and ready to depart in good time."

"Yes, Mama," Ysella said with fake contrition.

Morvoren had better manners. "I won't be late, Lady Ormonde."

Kit poked his head out of his bedroom door. "I've no idea what you girls get up to in your rooms, but you'd better stop talking and get on with it. Because if you're not ready in time, then I shall leave without you." But he was laughing.

"Kit, you wouldn't!" Ysella exclaimed, but she was laughing as well.

Morvoren took a last glance at Kit, whose hair had somehow become tousled, and retreated inside her own room. If she had to look at him much longer, her heart was going to burst with longing. Would the ball be as fun as the dancing practice had been? She doubted it. What she really wanted to do was dance in his arms, with no one else around. A waltz, for sure, with all its lack of respectability. To feel his hands on her waist, to have him hold her close against his strong body and to rest her cheek against his. For his breath to mingle with hers, his lips to move to meet hers, and for him to press his hips against hers…

No. That was never going to happen. She could long for it as much as she wanted, but she was an interloper from another world, and he was a desperate smuggler with no interest in her.

Although that wasn't strictly true. Was it? But if he felt the way she suspected, why had he not acted on his feelings? Because she was a nobody, of course, and his mother wouldn't approve. That was why. In Lady Ormonde's eyes, her position was little better than Sam's. A bit of a charity case and not marriage material.

Loveday had hung the new gown on the outside of the wardrobe in its tissue paper covering and Morvoren's eyes kept going back to it as Loveday dressed her hair. "Sit still, Miss Morvoren, or it'll never come out the way Martha showed me," Loveday reprimanded. "I see you a-lookin' at your dress and it won't be goin' nowhere. Just let me get your hair pinned up and we can get it down."

Somehow, despite Morvoren's restless fidgeting, Loveday managed to draw up a bun on the back of her mistress's head and tease out a fine display of ringlets around her face. Then she set a couple of pretty, sparkling combs in Morvoren's hair and stood back to admire the effect with a harumph of satisfaction.

Morvoren peered into the small looking glass on her dressing table. "I look like someone out of a book." A Jane Austen book, of course.

"You look pretty as a picture," Loveday said. "And if I says so as shouldn't, it's thanks to how I done your hair."

Morvoren smiled. "Quite definitely it's thanks to your hairdressing skills that I shall look presentable this evening. Thank you very much for that, Loveday."

Loveday picked up a small jar. "And now for a touch of makeup."

Makeup? So far Morvoren had seen no hint that makeup was a thing in 1811. But she was wrong. With practiced fingers, Loveday carefully applied some cold cream, a touch of liquid rouge to her cheeks and lips, and darkened her carefully plucked eyebrows, with of all things, a clove she burnt in the candle flame. Fascinating. Not that afterwards Morvoren could even tell she had makeup on, although her lips did look a little redder than before. Subtle.

Next, a full-length petticoat went on over her slip and stays. The Misses Sedgewick had sent, among a lot of other fancy things, a brand new one for under the ball gown, of finest muslin. Feeling like the belle of the ball already, Morvoren rolled her white silk stockings up her legs and secured them with fetching new blue garters—not that anyone was likely to see them—and slipped her feet into the blue silk slippers that had come with her gown.

Time to unveil the gown.

With reverence, Loveday fetched it from where it was hanging and removed the tissue paper with care. Morvoren caught her breath. Exquisite. Quite the most beautiful dress she'd ever seen. A pale-blue, silk underskirt and a puff-sleeved sarsenet bodice embroidered with silver thread lay beneath a fine silk net overskirt, floaty as gossamer and embroidered with large delicately stitched silver flowers and swirls that matched the bodice.

How anyone could have sewn this net overskirt by hand, Morvoren had no idea, nor how this whole gown could have been completed in so short a time without even benefit of a sewing machine, but the tiny stitches of the little seamstress girls were almost invisible. She had a guilty feeling that a basket of food was small recompense to these girls for the work they'd done this week.

Perhaps she could do more for them while she was here?

She stepped into the dress with care, afraid she might tread on the lovely train and rip it, and Loveday fastened the tiny buttons down her back. This left her with a daringly plunging decolletage that made her glad of the support of her stays. The feeling of being part of a fairytale washed over her, and only the thought of how hard those little girls must have worked kept her feet on the ground.

"Just a dusting o' powder," Loveday opined, wielding a large furry thing that looked all too much like some creature's foot. "You have the clearest of skin and such a lovely complexion, 'twould be a shame to hide it." She wafted the foot across Morvoren's cheeks and made her sneeze.

She chuckled. "Why, bless you, Miss Morvoren. Does make me sneeze a bit too, but most ladies do like to cover up their blemishes with a touch o' powder." She paused. "Not that you got any to speak of." She set down the powder and the furry foot. "And what about a dab of perfume? Here, just behind your ears."

Morvoren had never been a girl who'd wanted, or, she liked to think, needed to wear a lot of makeup, being a more outdoor type, so she heartily agreed with her on this subject. Less was definitely more where makeup was concerned. But she'd take the perfume, with a delicate hint of the lavender that reminded her of her mother's garden at their old farm.

The long white gloves from the Sedgewick's little shop went on next, reaching to above her elbows. She'd have to be careful not to let them get dirty.

Clicking her tongue in approval, Loveday fastened a spray of delicate white flowers onto Morvoren's bodice as a corsage. Then, with a small, bejeweled reticule borrowed from Ysella, to keep her dance card and fan in, and a delicate silk shawl draped across her shoulders, Morvoren was as ready for a genuine Regency ball at a real duke's castle as she was ever going to be. A bundle of nerves, but ready.

Feeling a twinge of guilt about leaving Loveday to tidy up, Morvoren stepped into the corridor. Someone was waiting for her. Her heart leapt wildly. Kit, his brow furrowed in a frown, stopped striding up and down and made her a smart bow.

"Morvoren." His voice emerged deeper and huskier than she'd ever heard before. As though, perhaps, he'd just experienced the same sensations as she had. She certainly hoped so. "You look… stunning."

How handsome he looked in his black tailcoat and pale-cream silk breeches, silk stockings and buckled shoes. His gorgeous waistcoat was of the exact same blue as Morvoren's gown, embroidered with curlicues and twists just like her bodice. The suspicion that the Misses Sedgewick's little seamstresses had made it for him on purpose to match the gown warmed Morvoren's cheeks. Had he gone back specially to ask them?

"Lord Ormonde."

A warm feeling kindled in her stomach as she studied Kit's appearance for a brief moment, almost enough to replace her nervous agitation. Not a trace of stubble darkened his strong jawline, and his unruly hair had been artfully arranged into a tumble of Byronic curls. Morvoren had to fight an overwhelming urge to reach up and run her fingers through it. Would he have been shocked or would he have pulled her roughly into his arms and covered her in kisses? A shiver of glorious anticipation ran through her, and, with that warm feeling descending southwards, she had to give herself an unobtrusive shake to return to reality.

All she could do was gaze into his dark eyes as her heart skipped beat after beat. She could drown in those eyes if she looked into them for long enough. And was she mistaken in thinking he was gazing back with a longing similar to her own? Goodness. That hot feeling pooled somewhere well to the south of her stays and set her quivering with desire.

"Kit," she managed, although the word came out choked and croaky, making her cheeks flush with heat.

Did she want him to kiss her right now? Yes. She did. If she was honest, what she wanted him to do was to sweep her up in his arms and carry her back into the bedroom, to rip off their fine clothes and throw her on the bed and make passionate love to her until neither of them could stand up. She was a twenty-first-century girl, not an innocent Regency miss, and the two of them had been pussyfooting around each other all week in those dancing lessons, the sexual tension growing by the day. She couldn't have been the only one to feel it, could she?

He visibly pulled himself together. Did he have that same curling in his innards that had rendered her knees so weak they might perhaps deposit her on the long landing rug in a jellied heap of lust?

If he did, then he was hiding it well. He cleared his throat and from an inside pocket in his immaculate coat produced a slender, velvet box. Clearing his throat again, he held it out to her. "Er, I have something for you." He hesitated. "Something I would like you to wear tonight."

Yes, surely, he must have, for his voice had gone as croaky as hers.

"For me?" She took the box, her fingers just brushing his and a tremor of pure desire coursing through her. Swallowing, she stared down, forcing herself to concentrate on it and not think about how much she wanted him to take her right now. A jewelry box, long and flat. Was he giving her an actual piece of jewelry?

"Just to wear tonight," he said again, his words tumbling out in a hurry. "I thought it would match your eyes. Open it."

She opened the box and stared at the contents. A silver necklace of what looked like tiny diamonds glittered about a single, deep-blue sapphire on a velvet bed. Her eyes must have sprung open as wide as they could go. "I-I can't wear this," she managed to stutter. "It must be worth a fortune."

Kit reached over and took the necklace out of its velvet nest, managing not to touch her this time. "Yes, you can, because I am asking you to." He held up the sapphire close to her face. "And it is mine to give, inherited from my grandmother, who was a Cornish girl like you. I want you to wear it because you have eyes that exactly match the color of this stone, just as she did, and there's no one else could wear it quite so well." He smiled, an oddly serious smile after the fun they'd had dancing over these last few days. "I will brook no argument. If I am to escort you to the ball, then I would like you to wear my grandmother's necklace."

He moved behind her and put the necklace about her neck. His warm fingers on her skin as he fumbled a little with the clasp only served to renew her longing. He set his hands on her shoulders, his touch like fire, and turned her around. "There. This completes the picture I wish to hold in my mind."

Kiss me. I'm yours for the taking.

But he only held out his hand. "Let us go downstairs. Ysella and my mother are already waiting in the hallway and the carriage is in the drive."

So much for her vow not to allow herself to get involved with Kit, no matter how alluring he might be. Breathless with pent up desire, she let him take her hand and escort her down the stairs. More used now to not tripping over her gown with every untoward step, she made as elegant a descent as any she'd made this last week.

Ysella stood at the foot of the stairs looking radiant in her gold gown. Morvoren had already seen and admired it that afternoon, as Ysella had been too impatient to wait to rip the tissue from it in the evening and had bid her come and admire the intricate embroidery across the bodice. She had a silk shawl in a paler shade of gold draped about her shoulders and small golden flowers dotted her dark curls. A captivating beauty. Morvoren had a feeling she would be a great success with the local young men that night.

Kit's mother wore a deep aquamarine gown, and her hair was arranged formally in a less girlish style. But she was still a very beautiful woman, with a figure, aided of course by stays, many a younger woman would envy.

Lady Ormonde smiled with a new warmth, which surprised Morvoren. "I feel very proud of my two beautiful girls," she said, encompassing Morvoren along with Ysella. "How prettily Kit's necklace sets off the blue of your eyes, Morvoren. Really quite remarkable. Come along, girls. Let us get into the carriage."

The carriage waiting on the drive came equipped, this time, with not just the driver, James, whom they'd had before, now dressed in a livery worthy of the driver of Cinderella's coach, but now also two other liveried and bewigged worthies. Both of these were to perch on the back of the vehicle while it was in motion. One of these two was waiting with the step down and the door open.

Kit handed his ladies one at a time into the carriage then climbed in himself, settling on the backward facing seat beside his mother, who was already fanning herself with her prettily decorated chicken-skin fan. "I declare," she said. "It's too warm in here by far. The evening will be a hot one, I fear. I do hope there isn't a storm brewing."

Kit must have been as hot or hotter than they were, in his tight-fitting black silk coat and with his stock fastened up under his chin. However, at least he didn't have to wear stays underneath all that lot. Morvoren tried not to fidget, but she was feeling as hot as Lady Ormonde. Which reminded her that she, too, had a fan, so she took it from her borrowed reticule and employed it to waft some cooler air onto her face. It wouldn't do to arrive at the ball red-faced and sweaty.

The lackey closed the door and lifted the step, and the carriage rocked as he jumped up to join his fellow on the back. In a moment, they were underway, rattling over the graveled drive and swaying a little from side to side, but not sufficiently to give Morvoren the motion sickness she'd experienced in the mail coach. The horses seemed to be sticking to a steady trot, so it would take over an hour to get to the ball. With a refreshing breeze now wafting in through the open windows on either side, Morvoren settled back in her seat and stared out at the passing twilit countryside. All thoughts of lust evaporated to be replaced with the familiar knotting anxiety that she was destined to inevitably do something wrong and make a fool of herself that night.

Now she was more used to traveling by horsepower, the journey passed very quickly. All too soon, they were rolling up a wide driveway toward the looming shape of not a castle but a huge country house.

Morvoren peered out of the window to stare as the driveway curved around, affording an excellent view of the brightly illuminated edifice.

"Denby Castle," Kit said, his voice curt, as though this might be somewhere he wasn't fond of.

"It doesn't look much like a castle."

He nodded, his face now just a pale blur in the dark interior of the carriage. "There was a proper castle here once, but it's long gone now. If you were to take a walk in the grounds, you'd come across the bare bones that are all that remain of it now." He paused, and cleared his throat.

Why did she get the impression that those ruins held some bad memory for him? That Denby was not a place he was fond of?

He went on. "The house that stands here now is scarcely more than a hundred and fifty years old I believe. Nothing like as old as Ormonde."

The coach swung around in a wide arc and came to a halt on an expanse of pale gravel in front of the house. Lanterns, burning on tall poles every ten yards or so, liberally illuminated the whole front fa?ade of the house, their flickering light sending shadows leaping in every direction across the driveway.

The carriage rocked as one of the lackeys jumped down to open the doors and let down the step.

Kit descended first, then handed his ladies down. It seemed they'd arrived at a popular time, for other carriages were disgorging sumptuously clad ladies and austere looking gentlemen. Fans fluttered, feathered headdresses bobbed, and laughter rose toward the dark sky.

Kit held out his arm to his mother and she took it, deploying her fan against the warmth of the evening. Ysella linked her arm through Morvoren's. "Come along," she whispered, suddenly sounding as nervous as Morvoren felt. "We must keep close to Mama, or she'll be angry. She'll want to keep a good eye on which gentlemen we dance with."

Even more lanterns lit the steps as brightly as if it were full daylight. As they climbed the steps, Morvoren took a closer look at some of the other guests: women like bright butterflies in their many-hued gowns, and among the somber black and navy coats of men like Kit, a few army officers, their rich, red military uniforms standing out like exotic birds of paradise.

She swallowed down her fears. She was at a real Regency ball. Her, a girl more used to listening to heavy metal, rhythm and blues, or maybe a bit of country and western. How scary was this? Would she manage to acquit herself without mishap? No. She mustn't think like that. She could do it. She had to. She couldn't let down Lady Ormonde, or Ysella, and certainly not Kit.

She looked at his upright, slim-hipped figure just in front and drew in a shaky breath. She could do it for him.

Ysella's arm linked through hers tightened. It was good to know she wasn't the only nervous one.