Regency Scoundrels And Scandals

Chapter Five

That had not been so bad, Bel told herself as she was driven home that evening. She had survived meeting Lord Dereham again without betraying herself in front of the sharpest eyes for scandal in town, she had mingled comfortably with any number of old acquaintances and met several congenial new people and she found herself more confident and poised than she had ever been in society before.

Age, she supposed, did have its benefits in bestowing some confidence. One came to realise that not every eye in the room was upon you, that you could make little mistakes without the world coming to an end and there was neither a strict father, nor a critical husband, to remind you constantly how much you needed to improve yourself.

Bel recalled with a smile how last month she had even brazenly broken her last days of mourning and taken herself off to the Prince Regent’s reception for the Grand Duchess Eva with the sole intention of getting her Serene Highness to herself to upbraid her for breaking her brother Sebastian’s heart.

She had cast every tenet of polite behaviour to the winds when she had done that, and, although she suspected her well-intentioned meddling had actually made things worse for a while between the two lovers, she now had a friend for life in her new sister-in-law.

Lucky things, she mused wistfully. How must it feel to have a man look at you the way Sebastian looked at Eva when he thought himself unobserved, his very soul in his eyes?

‘My lady?’ They were home, the groom was holding the door of the carriage for her, and had probably been standing there patiently for some minutes.

‘Thank you, James.’ She gathered up her things and stepped out. Yes, all in all, this evening had been a success and she felt confident about repeating it. Tomorrow night was the Steppingleys’ dancing party, an opportunity, she had been informed by Mrs Steppingley that evening, of giving her daughter and her friends some experience before their come-out next Season. Lady Belinda need not fear a juvenile party, she had been assured, her hostess had invited a mixture of interesting people and there would be cards for those not wishing to dance.

It would be fun to dance again, although she would avoid the waltz, of course, and perhaps meeting all those interesting people she had been promised would help keep her mind off a certain broad-shouldered gentleman with a sinfully tempting curve to his mobile mouth. If only he did not make her feel so wicked.

Philpott glided about in her usual stately fashion, unpinning Bel’s hair, locking away her jewellery, stuffing the tissue paper into the toes of her evening slippers before coming back to unfasten her gown.

Bel unclasped the diamanté brooch that had been holding the rosebuds in place. They were beginning to lose their firmness, the delicate petals felt like limp velvet under her fingers.

‘Will you fetch me a box of salt, please?’ she asked the dresser. ‘About so big?’ She gestured with her hands six inches apart.

‘Now, my lady?’

‘Yes, please. These are so pretty, I intend to preserve them as a memory of the first social engagement of my new life.’

‘Very well, my lady.’ Expressionless, Philpott helped her into her robe, handed her the hairbrush and went out. Did she guess the real reason Bel wanted to keep the flowers? If she did, she was far too well trained to let a flicker cross her face.

Bel pulled the bristles through her hair in a steady rhythm, contemplating her aunt’s demand that she engage a companion, then shook her head, sending the heavy fall of hair swishing back and forth against the silk of her robe. Privacy was difficult enough with a houseful of servants, let alone with some stranger, obsessed with propriety and convinced her employer required her company at all times.

No, life like this might be a trifle lonely, but she had grown used to that, even when Henry had been alive. In fact, loneliness was a welcome space of peace and privacy. Those things were more important than satisfying the conventions.

The guests at Mrs Steppingley’s party proved every bit as entertaining as she had promised. After an hour Bel had met a colonel from one of the Brunswick regiments, a gentleman pursuing researches into hot-air balloons as a means of transport for freight, several charming young girls, wide-eyed with excitement at their first ‘proper’ dancing party, a poetess and an alarmingly masculine bluestocking who, on hearing who she was, delivered a diatribe on the mistaken opinions of her Aunt Louisa on the evolution of English church architecture.

As Bel was just about capable of differentiating between a font and a water stoop and had not the slightest understanding of the vital importance of rood screens, she was greatly relieved to be rescued by the poetess, Miss Layne, who tactfully removed her with the entirely specious excuse that Bel had promised Miss Layne her escort into the room where the dancing was about to begin.

‘Phew! At least Miss Farrington despises dancing, so she will not pursue us in here.’ Miss Layne found them seats halfway along the wall and sank down with a hunted look back at the doorway. She fanned herself vigorously, giving Bel a chance to study her. She supposed she must be about forty, a slender woman with soft mouse-brown hair, amused hazel eyes and an air of being interested in everything. ‘What a bore she is.’ She suddenly whipped a notebook out of her reticule, jotted a note and stuffed it back again.

Bel blinked. ‘Inspiration?’ she enquired.

‘Yes! See that young couple over there, pretending not to look at each other. So sweet, and so gauche. It gave me an idea. I have a fancy to write a really romantic verse story.’

‘Will I find your work at Hatchard’s?’ Bel enquired. ‘I am afraid I am very ignorant about poetry. My husband considered it frivolous, so I never used to buy it, although I have to confess to reading my way through Lord Byron’s works at the moment.’

‘Yes, you will find mine there, I have several volumes in print. But you must allow me to send you one as a gift. Some are frivolous, some are serious. But I see no harm in occasional frivolity—’ Miss Layne broke off, her gaze fixed at something over Bel’s shoulder. ‘And speaking of frivolity, what a very beautiful man. Lord Byron would give his eye teeth for such a hero.’

Bel did not have to turn around to know who it was out of all the handsome men in London at the moment. The very air seemed to carry the awareness of Reynard to her, as intensely as if he was running his hands over her quivering skin.

‘Really?’ she made herself say lightly, stamping on that unsettling image. ‘I am all agog, Miss Layne, I do hope he passes by us so I can see, for I can hardly turn round and stare—’

‘Lady Belinda. Madam.’ Yes, it was Reynard and her pulse was all over the place. Miss Layne was looking up at him with the air of a lepidopterist who has just found a rare species of butterfly and was wondering where her net had gone. Bel pulled herself together. A surge of lust, for she supposed that was what was afflicting her, was no excuse for a lady to forget her manners.

‘Lord Dereham, good evening. Miss Layne, may I introduce Lord Dereham?’

They shook hands. ‘Miss Layne—not the author of Thoughts on an English Riverbank?’

‘Why, yes. It was published at the end of last year,’ she explained to Bel. ‘You have read it, Lord Dereham?’

‘On the eve of the battle of Quatre Bras, Miss Layne. It was a lovely contrast to the scenes around me, and I must thank you for it.’

The poetess beamed up at him. ‘I am delighted to have been able to provide a distraction at such a time.’

‘More than that: a reminder of what we were fighting for.’

Bel bit her lip at the undercurrent of emotion in the controlled voice, then he was smiling again. ‘May I have the honour of a dance, Miss Layne?’

‘I do not dance, Lord Dereham, Lady Belinda kindly rescued me from an importunate acquaintance and we took refuge in here.’

‘Lady Belinda is a notable rescuer of all her friends,’ Reynard observed seriously. ‘If you are merely hiding in here and the other gentlemen have not yet found you, then perhaps your dance card has a vacancy for me, Lady Belinda?’

Bel laughed, flipping open the fold of embossed card that hung from a cord around her wrist to show him. ‘Quite empty, Lord Dereham. I have been talking too much to look for partners, I fear.’ She liked the way he had asked the older woman first instead of simply assuming she would not be dancing. It was thoughtful, but done without the slightest suggestion of patronage.

‘May I?’ He lifted the card, his fingers brushing against hers. Even through the thickness of two pairs of evening gloves Bel seemed to feel the warmth. She made herself sit still while he took the tiny pencil and stared at the list of dances. The noise of the orchestra carrying out its final tuning faded as she looked at his bent head. She knew what that thick golden hair felt like against her cheek, she knew what it looked like, tousled from sleep, and her free hand strained against her willpower to lift and touch it.

‘There. I hope that is acceptable.’ He had put down a waltz as well as a country dance. Bel opened her mouth to tell him that she would not be waltzing, then threw her resolution overboard with an almost audible splash. This was Reynard; she wanted to be in his arms and she could admit to herself a disgraceful impulse to make other women envious.

‘May I fetch you ladies some lemonade?’ They shook their heads with a murmur of thanks. ‘Then I will see you for the second country dance, Lady Belinda.’

‘That man has lovely manners,’ Miss Layne remarked as they watched Reynard’s retreating back. ‘Oh, good! There is my brother now, I was not certain if he was coming tonight.’ She waved and a slender, brown-haired man who was just passing Reynard waved back and began to make his way across to them.

‘Kate, fancy finding you in the ballroom!’ Mr Layne was considerably younger than his sister, but he had her soft brown hair and quizzical hazel eyes. He smiled at her affectionately and bowed to Bel. ‘Ma’am.’

‘Lady Belinda, may I introduce my brother, Mr Layne. Patrick, Lady Belinda Felsham.’

Bel shook hands and gestured to the vacant chair beside her. ‘Mr Layne?’

‘Thank you, Lady Belinda, but I am promised for the next dance. Might I ask if you can spare me one later? Although I expect your card is filled already.’

‘Not at all, I would be delighted.’ She showed him the virtually empty card and smiled acceptance as he indicated the first waltz.

‘Very daring of him,’ Miss Layne observed as her brother went in search of his next partner. ‘I do hope he has learned the steps.’ They both observed in anxious silence as Mr Layne went down the first measure of the country dance without error. ‘Thank goodness. He must have been taking lessons. He has been rather preoccupied learning to manage our uncle’s estate for the last two years; I was beginning to despair of him ever getting out into society.’

‘And meeting a nice young lady, perhaps?’ Bel teased.

‘Indeed. Our uncle is Lord Hinckliffe and Patrick is his heir—he is taking that all rather seriously. I was worrying that he would end up an elderly bachelor like our relative at this rate.’

Mr Layne was a long way from that condition, Bel realised a little later, as he swept her competently into the waltz. Far from having to temper her steps to a learner, she found he was testing her own rusty technique to the limit. They were laughing as they whirled to a stop and well on the way to being very well pleased with each other’s company. He was coaxing her into allowing him another dance when Bel saw Reynard making his way towards them.

Patrick Layne’s voice faded and the air seemed to shimmer as the crowded room became a mere background to the man in front of her. Bel wondered dazedly if she was about to swoon.

She blinked and the illusion of faintness vanished, leaving her startled and confused. It was not simply that Reynard was a handsome, personable man. She had just spent five minutes, very pleasantly, in the arms of another man who could fairly be described in the same way. This was different. This was something she could only try to understand.

With an effort she kept her voice normal as she agreed to dance the cotillion with Mr Layne later in the evening. Then she turned, smiling, to take Reynard’s outstretched hand with a sense of surrender that filled her with nervous delight. The deep-sea eyes smiled at her and she stopped fighting the apprehension. A die had been cast; the problem was, she did not know what game they were playing.

The steps of the country dance were intricate enough to keep Bel’s full attention on her moves. After the first circle she found herself standing next to her partner. His soft chuckle had her glancing up at him, disconcerted.

‘What is it?’

‘You are frowning Lady Belinda. If I was a nervous man, I would think I had displeased you; as it is, I am hoping you are concentrating on your steps.’

‘I do beg your pardon,’ Bel said hastily, then saw the skin at the corner of his eyes crease in amusement. ‘Oh! You are teasing me. I was not frowning at all, was I?’

‘Not at all,’ Ashe confessed. ‘But you were concentrating very hard and I was rather hoping for some of the stimulating conversation one usually indulges in during these dances. We are off again.’ He took her hand, twirled her and began to promenade down the double line. Army life had allowed for numerous scratch balls in the most unlikely places and with the most unconventional partners. Now he did not even have to think about the steps.

‘Unless things have changed a great deal while I have been in mourning,’ she retorted, ‘that means exchanging platitudes about the music, the temperature and what a crush it is this evening. Surely you do not find that stimulating?’

Ashe steered her into place and grinned. ‘It depends on the company. I suspect your view of the social scene may be a little more entertaining than most, Lady Belinda.’ He had her attention now; she was not anxious about her steps or smiling over that lad she had just been dancing with. He was conscious of an unfamiliar twinge of jealousy. The young man, whoever he was, had made her laugh, had brought colour to her cheeks and she had seemed very relaxed in his company.

He had nothing to feel jealous about, for heaven’s sake. The first time they had met he had embarrassed himself and escaped considerably more lightly than he deserved. The second time had been a mere social exchange, although he had applauded the fierce indignation that had made her defend the wounded soldiers and the quick wits that had provided a plausible excuse for their previous meeting. Now they were nothing more to each other than casual acquaintances.

Only…there were none of his casual acquaintances whose back-door keys were in his possession. His valet had found the key in his pocket and wordlessly placed it on his dressing table amidst the litter of cards and notes. Whenever he picked up his cologne, or replaced his brushes, the metal clinked. There was no excuse for leaving it there. He should have wrapped it up and sent it back with the roses, he knew that. Why he had kept it, why he had not mentioned it, he was carefully not examining.

But Lady Belinda had not asked for the key back. Obviously she had not thought about it, forgotten it, or perhaps she had taken the precaution of having the locks changed. He stepped into the circle and took the hands of the lady opposite, twirled her round and restored her to her new place in the set, watching while Belinda was twirled in her turn.

Not a conventional beauty, Ashe told himself, trying to look at her dispassionately. It was difficult to be objective for some reason. He did his best. Speaking grey eyes, glossy dark hair, those were admirable—but a connoisseur would say her nose was a little too long, her chin rather too decided and her mouth too mobile. He watched it now, intrigued. A polite smile for the man who had just turned her became serious, her full underlip caught between white teeth as she thought about the next moves. Then she gave a secret smile of relief when she remembered what she had to do next.

A dancer moved too energetically, knocking against Belinda, and the smile became a fleeting wince, then she caught his eye and smiled and he found himself smiling back as uninhibitedly as though they were alone on a hillside with no one for miles around. It shook him, and it seemed to have surprised her too, as though she had shared the feeling.

Her expression was serious again in an instant, although he was conscious of her glancing at him sideways from under the sweep of her lashes, a feminine trick that always amused him in other women. Now, he felt the urge to whirl her out of the set, catch her face between his palms and lock eyes with her, to read what was going on in her mind.