Verity stood before the long mirror in her bedchamber and evaluated her appearance. Her dress for her first London ball was white. The dressmaker had advised that this was the most suitable color, even though Verity was well past eighteen. She had found a fabric with a silvery sheen in the dressmaker’s shop, however, and Mama had agreed that it became her. Her hair was gathered in a knot on top of her head with a few wispy curls drawn forward, making its bright hue less noticeable, she thought. Her pearl drop earrings and necklace completed a picture that would definitely do. No one would call her a diamond of the first water, perhaps, but she looked well.
She couldn’t count on throngs of dance partners. She didn’t know enough young men for that. Olivia thought that Verity’s small notoriety from singing would attract interest and lead some to ask the hostess for introductions. They would see about that.
Verity knew that Lord Randolph would be at the ball. Surely he would ask her to dance! He’d sent her some lines of George Herbert’s poetry after their recent outing. Verity retrieved the folded page from her dressing table and read it again.
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky;
The dew shall weep thy fall tonight.
She smiled. She knew the poem, and the rest wasn’t so sweet. Some people might call it grim, actually. She’d twit him about that. And perhaps about the archbishop as well. She looked forward to it. To a surprising degree. Gathering her gloves and wrap, she went to join her mother.
Sitting in the line of carriages waiting to discharge their passengers, Verity breathed in the smoky scent of the torches flaming beside the front door. She watched beautifully dressed guests step down from their vehicles and enter in a swirl of colors. She ran her fingers over the silky fabric of her gown and listened to the clop of hooves and jingle of harness. And she gathered these details into one of her moments. The scene was all she’d imagined back in her provincial home.
As she moved up the stairs to greet the hostess and pass into the ballroom, this seemed like the glittering center of the world.
“All these grand people,” murmured her mother. “And scarcely one word of sensible conversation among them.”
“Mrs. Doran will be here,” Verity said.
“That’s right. She’ll help me look after you.”
Verity hid a grimace. She’d endured an intrusive scold about Rochford from Mrs. Doran because she was Mama’s friend. The line moved up two steps, and then another.
The wait seemed long, but at last they were exchanging greetings and moving on. Verity drew in an appreciative breath when they entered the ballroom. Swags of flowers adorned the walls, filling the air with scent. A trio of musicians tuned up on a small dais in the far corner. Everywhere, members of the ton chattered and flirted.
She scanned the rows of gilt chairs lining the walls, found Mrs. Doran, and settled her mother beside her. Before they could insist that Verity join them, she said, “There’s Lady Emma. I must say hello.”
Emma, lovely in rose pink, stood with her older sister by one of the long windows. “You look perfectly splendid,” Verity told her when she reached them.
Emma looked down at her gown. “It is pretty, isn’t it? Hilda said I looked like the top of a chocolate box.”
“I expect she’s jealous,” said Verity.
“She could never bear to wait her turn,” sighed Emma’s older sister. “And now I’ve had to confine her to her room as punishment for sneaking off. Lud knows what revenge she’s plotting. Oh. Wait here, Emma, I’m going to speak to someone.” She moved off in a rustle of cobalt silk.
“Is the rest of your family here?” Verity asked Emma. She hadn’t spotted Lord Randolph in the crowd.
“Sebastian escorted us.” Emma heaved a great sigh. “I shan’t be able to waltz,” she said. “We haven’t been to Almack’s. I don’t see why we must all wait to be approved there.”
“We don’t aspire to vouchers,” Verity replied.
“I could see if Georgina would ask for you.”
“I don’t care about going.” Verity spotted Olivia and gave a little wave. “What a beautiful dress,” she said when that young lady joined them. Olivia wore a gown of pale-blue tissue over white satin with a rather daring neckline. A sapphire ornament sparkled in her brown hair, matching a lovely bracelet. The ensemble referenced her father’s wealth without flaunting it, Verity thought.
Georgina came back with a young gentleman in tow. “Emma, this is Mr. Lionel Packenham. Mr. Packenham, may I present my sister, Lady Emma Stane?”
Verity felt a pang of envy over Georgina’s social expertise. She sometimes felt she was guiding her mother through the season rather than vice versa. Although Mr. Packenham wasn’t terribly handsome, he had an engaging smile. Emma seemed pleased, and that was the important thing.
The two went off to join the set forming in the center of the large room. Georgina was summoned by her husband to do the same.
“What a wet fish,” said Olivia.
“Olivia!”
“Packenham,” Olivia added. “Oh, Packenham. Impeccable pedigree and tub loads of money. He doesn’t require a chin.”
“Someone will hear you.”
“In this din? Never. But I must tell you my great coup.” She leaned a little closer. “I’ve gotten a copy of Herr Grossmann’s notes about Mr. Rochford.”
“Did you bribe his assistant?” Verity asked.
“You’re too clever. You’ve spoiled my story. But yes, I did. And now I know all of Mr. Rochford’s innermost secrets.”
“Really? Such as?”
Olivia made a face. “Unfortunately there wasn’t much more than what Herr Grossmann said in public. But I can pretend there were desperate revelations.”
“Mightn’t that make Mr. Rochford angry?”
“I hope so. One strong emotion leads to another.”
As Verity considered this dubious proposition, the musicians showed signs of beginning. Olivia surveyed the room. “We don’t want to be labeled wallflowers. Ah.” She summoned a tall young man with a gesture. “Aren’t you going to ask me to dance, Ronald?”
“Naturally,” he said with a bow.
“A crony of my older brother,” Olivia told Verity. “Known him since I was seven. Do you have a friend with you for Miss Sinclair, Ronald?”
Verity would have preferred to find her own partner, had she known anyone.
“All engaged for this set, I’m afraid. I hope I may snag you for the next, Miss Sinclair.”
Verity smiled and nodded. One of the few advantages of Chester was her broad acquaintance there, built up over a lifetime. She never lacked dance partners at the country assemblies. She’d resigned herself to going back to her mother when Olivia said, “Oh.” She waved, discreetly, then more broadly, attracting a good deal of amused attention before she was noticed by the young man who seemed to be her target.
With what Verity thought was reluctance, an athletic-looking fellow with dark hair and eyes came over to them.
“Have you no partner for this set, Mr. Wrentham?” Olivia said. “May I present my friend Miss Verity Sinclair?”
Mr. Wrentham was attractive, but his expression was closed. Verity felt thrust upon him as he bowed and requested the honor. She wanted to dance, however. And it wasn’t her fault that Olivia had dragged him over.
They moved onto the floor. Mr. Wrentham danced well and even smiled once or twice as they exchanged commonplaces. Half the set had passed before Verity made the connection. This was the man Miss Reynolds was mooning over, according to Olivia. She eyed him with greater interest and indulged her curiosity. “I believe I know a friend of yours,” she said.
“Indeed?”
“Miss Frances Reynolds.”
He looked down at her, true interest flickering in his brown eyes for the first time. His hand tightened on hers. “She spoke of me?”
Verity wasn’t quite prepared for the strength of his reaction. She couldn’t repeat what Olivia had said. “Your name was mentioned.”
“Where? How?”
“At, er, an evening party, I believe.”
“Miss Reynolds is in London? What is her direction?”
“I don’t know.”
He looked annoyed. He might as well have said, “What use are you to me then?”
An irritating man, Verity thought, doubting Miss Reynolds’s taste. Still, the girl had seemed so melancholy. “Surely you have mutual acquaintances who could supply that information,” she said.
“Hah. Yes. Probably.” He said little else before the country dance ended, and then he left her with a cursory farewell.
“Good riddance,” Verity murmured under her breath.
Ronald did not reappear. Her next partner requested an introduction from their hostess and said flattering things about her singing. His gaze kept sinking toward her bodice, however. And lingering. It was a nearly unredeemable black mark in Verity’s book. She insisted upon conversing with a face, not a forehead.
And then the musicians were striking up a waltz, and Verity found Mr. Rochford bowing before her.
His tall, fair-haired figure defined elegance. Some men just seemed made for evening dress, she thought. No doubt he danced exquisitely. His brows were raised, his expression challenging. Of course he was aware that he’d presented her with a conundrum.
Verity hadn’t determined in advance whether she would waltz tonight. Mama had doubts about the dance, though she admitted that it was accepted among the ton. Verity had decided to wait and see how she felt when the time came. And here it was. In an untenable form. Waltzing with Mr. Rochford was a step further, so to speak, than she was willing to go. She’d have to refuse.
She wasn’t particularly sorry. Mr. Rochford had proved to be a disappointment. He might be handsome and polished, but he wasn’t an adventurer. An acknowledged rake was actually a rather conventional creature, she thought. He simply turned conventions upside down. And his air of lazy impudence felt both dismissive and artificial. His eyes might twinkle, but they were hard. She opened her mouth to deny him the dance.
A broad-shouldered figure stepped between them. Lord Randolph Gresham grasped her hand. “I believe this dance is promised to me,” he said.
“I suppose the lady would know best about that,” replied Mr. Rochford, looking down his nose even though Lord Randolph was a hair taller. They shifted slightly, gazes locked, poised to jostle and posture like…men, Verity thought. Or dogs growling over a tidbit. “I am not a bone,” she said.
The declaration startled them out of their pose. And then Olivia was beside Rochford, her fingertips brushing the sleeve of his coat. “This must be our dance,” she said.
“Must it?”
“Oh yes, I think so.”
“How did I miss all these arrangements, I wonder?” But he looked more amused than angry, and he led her onto the floor.
The music had started. Couples swayed and turned. Lord Randolph still held Verity’s hand. She made no objection when he set the other at her waist and steered her into the waltz. Her free hand found his shoulder. Nearly as close as when they’d kissed, they moved down the floor in tandem. He pulled her into a twirl. Her skirt belled out. It was exhilarating.
“Miss Townsend’s behavior is quite fast,” he said. “You’d be well advised not to pick up her habits. She’s…unwise to dance with Thomas Rochford.”
In the blink of an eye, Verity was incredulous with rage. She’d never felt like hitting a man until this moment. Did he ask if she’d intended to accept Rochford’s invitation? Did he expect her to have the sense God gave a goose? No, he assumed she was a fool. He pushed in and tried to make a decision for her. And then he criticized her friend. “I believe I’ve mentioned that I don’t require your advice,” she said through clenched teeth.
Lord Randolph looked surprised, which only compounded his offense. If he said he knew better because of his position or wider experience, she’d…spit.
He did not. He danced. They turned at the end of the room and moved up the other side. Verity’s temper cooled somewhat. “Did you like the lines of Herbert I sent?” he said finally.
“That poem is about death,” Verity replied curtly.
“Yes. And the words are beautiful. ‘The dew shall weep thy fall tonight.’ I’ve always found that phrasing lovely.”
“Recording the presence of beauty, even though death is inevitable.”
“Precisely.” Lord Randolph nodded. “I should have known when you said you liked Herbert that you’re a thoughtful person. I can see why you don’t require advice.”
Mollified, Verity said, “I don’t say I never do.” She almost added that she’d been about to refuse Rochford. But he spoke first.
“Herbert was such a master. He finds the words even when he acknowledges there are none.” Softly, he recited: “‘Verses, ye are too fine a thing, too wise for my rough sorrows; cease, be dumb and mute. Give up your feet and running to mine eyes, and keep your measures for some lover’s lute, whose grief allows him music and a rhyme; for mine excludes both measure, tune, and time.’”
“Grief?” Verity repeated, wondering at the emotion in his voice.
Lord Randolph looked self-conscious. “Much-read lines come naturally to mind.” He hesitated before adding, “Yes, that poem helped me through a mournful time.”
Verity glimpsed shadows of pain in his eyes. He looked away, a clear signal not to probe further. As if she would in the middle of a ballroom. But perhaps, some other time, she’d discover the cause?
Olivia and Mr. Rochford twirled right into their path. Verity nearly stumbled as a humiliating dance-floor collision loomed. Then Lord Randolph’s hand at her waist swung her around, strong and sure, as if she was light as a feather. She felt as if her feet almost left the floor. Mr. Rochford’s eyes, inches away as they brushed past the other couple, twinkled with malicious enjoyment. Clearly, he’d done it on purpose.
Verity looked up at her partner. It was curious, she thought, how different two pairs of blue eyes could be. One might think that eyes were simply…eyes. But it wasn’t true. Thomas Rochford’s were brilliant, piercing, and opaque. Rather than windows to the soul, they were shutters obscuring it. Lord Randolph’s, on the other hand, were wonderfully expressive.
“Oaf,” muttered the latter.
Verity smiled.
“Rochford amuses you?” demanded Lord Randolph.
“Your characterization of him does. I don’t think many here would agree.”
“My opinions are not dictated by the chattering of the herd.”
“Of course they’re not.”
“Are you laughing at me?” He raised auburn brows. “I’m willing to amuse, but I like to know the joke.”
“Not a joke. More of a…fellow feeling.”
He looked confused.
The violinist hit a sour note. They both winced, with identical pained expressions. The player immediately recovered and moved on through the tune. “It’s a hard job playing for a ball,” Lord Randolph observed. “Tiring. Hostesses expect hired musicians to go on for hours without a break.”
“And pay them as little as they can manage,” Verity replied.
“It’s a precarious life, most times.”
“And yet, they get to make music.”
He nodded. “Often for unappreciative audiences, however.”
“We should tell them that we appreciate their efforts.”
He looked startled. “A fine idea.”
And so when the set ended, they went to commend the musicians, surprising these gentlemen with knowledgeable compliments on their skills.
“The violinist has a fine instrument,” said Verity as they walked away side by side.
“Italian like the man,” Lord Randolph agreed.
“I never tried the violin.”
“I can scrape out a simple tune. It’s easier to learn than a lute.”
“You play the lute?”
Randolph wondered why he had mentioned his archaic obsession. They’d been talking so easily that it had simply popped out. And now Miss Sinclair was intrigued, of course. Any musical person would be. No one played the lute any more. “I’ve been fooling about with one,” he said.
“The fingering is rather like a guitar, I understand?”
“A bit trickier.”
“Really? I’d like to see how.”
A scene rose in Randolph’s imagination—the two of them bent close together, his fingers adjusting hers on the stem of his lute, a turn of her head, a second searing kiss. Other considerations fled his brain. “I’d be happy to show you.”
“Show her what?” said his brother Robert’s voice. “Take care, Miss Sinclair. Randolph once spent three hours inspecting the Elgin Marbles. I had to flee the museum in self-defense.”
He’d walked automatically back to his family, Randolph realized. He ought to have delivered Miss Sinclair to her mother, but he’d been distracted. Under the eyes of his parents and two brothers, he murmured, “I was eleven years old.”
“Even worse,” said Robert. “What sort of boy—”
“I’m better at cricket than you,” Randolph interrupted. He couldn’t help it, even though he knew they’d laugh.
“Why must you always pretend you care nothing for intellectual subjects?” said Robert’s wife, Flora.
“To tweak you,” Robert answered with a fond smile.
“The Elgin Marbles are fascinating,” Verity found herself saying. “I spent more than three hours at the British Museum last Tuesday.” Her assertion was greeted by an interesting variety of smiles, from speculative to grateful. Suddenly, she felt like an animal stepping into a foreign herd.
Their hostess announced supper. Doors at the end of the ballroom were thrown open to reveal laden buffet tables in an adjoining room. “Shall we go in together?” asked the duchess. She took Miss Sinclair’s arm in a way that worried Randolph slightly and led the way. There was nothing to do but follow.
Robert moved faster and snagged a pair of tables that he and Sebastian pushed together to accommodate them all. The ladies sat down—Flora, Georgina, and Emma ranged around one end and Miss Sinclair next to his mother at the other.
At least Olivia Townsend was far away, Randolph noted. There was no sign of Rochford; she sat with a group of young people. Miss Sinclair’s mother was on the far side of the supper room at a table full of older ladies. She was looking toward them, but didn’t seem disapproving.
The gentlemen had remained on their feet. “Shall we do the honors?” asked Randolph’s father.
“Cream cakes,” replied the duchess.
“As if I don’t know, after all these years?”
His parents exchanged a smile. They were kind people, Randolph thought. There was no need for concern. Except he didn’t like the glint in his mother’s eye. She looked that way when she was ferreting out some transgression. Of which there was none in this case, he assured himself. All was well.
Randolph went off with his male relatives and a young man he didn’t know, who was squiring Emma apparently, to procure food.
He made it back in record time, having filled two plates rather randomly. “What did you think of the place?” his mother was saying when he sat down and placed the second plate in front of Miss Sinclair.
“Which place?” asked Randolph.
“Miss Sinclair attended a school for the daughters of senior clergymen,” answered his mother.
“Is there such a… Well, there must be.”
“In Lincolnshire,” said Miss Sinclair. “I thought it an admirable establishment.”
“Admirable,” echoed the duchess. “And congenial?”
“For the most part. Miss Brell, the founder, decreed that we should study only subjects related to the church or church work.”
She wasn’t looking at Randolph as she spoke, but he remembered her remarks about narrow-minded country clergymen. “That could cover almost any topic,” he observed.
Miss Sinclair shrugged. “Miss Brell’s motto was: resolution, rectitude, industry.”
At the other end of the table, Emma made a face. Everyone was listening to this conversation, Randolph saw.
“Many of my fellow students became missionaries.”
“It sounds absolutely dire,” said Emma.
“Not that,” Miss Sinclair replied. “No one was unkind. We weren’t deprived. But we were expected to be serious, always. Which was all very well for Latin class—”
“You know Latin?” asked Flora from the other table.
Miss Sinclair nodded. “And ecclesiastical history and moral philosophy.” She shifted in her chair as if uncomfortable.
His family could be overwhelming in such an unadulterated dose, Randolph thought. “It sounds like Oxford,” he offered. He wondered what music she’d been allowed to play. Church music, no doubt.
“And how much better than an education limited to embroidery and sketching and a smattering of Italian,” Flora declared. “Very few girls have such a chance.”
“True,” replied Miss Sinclair. “And yet, I think girls should have opportunities to be frivolous and…a bit wild. Isn’t that why they have all those games at boys’ schools?”
All the other ladies looked at Verity Sinclair. Randolph tried to catalog their expressions—Georgina amused, Emma bored, Flora arrested, his mother speculative. He felt an odd spurt of pride. Miss Sinclair was holding her own in this formidable group.
“I’ve established several schools for penniless girls, you know,” said the duchess. “Perhaps you’d like to visit one with me.”
“Oh.” Abruptly, Miss Sinclair looked like a lamb thrust into a flock of goats. No, she didn’t, Randolph immediately told himself. That analogy was wrong on any number of levels—not least that it made his mother inappropriately caprine.
“I’d welcome your opinion,” the duchess added.
“I don’t know that I would… Of course I’d be happy to—”
Before Randolph could intervene, his mother did. “Splendid. What about next Wednesday?”
As Miss Sinclair agreed, perforce, the other gentlemen returned with their spoils. Randolph’s father had a footman in tow bearing a whole platter of cream cakes, with bottles of champagne under each of his arms.
Plates were distributed. Corks popped and glasses poured. The conversation became more general.
“What is this?” Miss Sinclair asked, poking at a brown mass on her plate.
“Oh, er…” Randolph had no idea.
“Pickled mushrooms,” said his father.
Miss Sinclair drew back her fork. “I cannot eat mushrooms.”
“You don’t care for them?” asked the duke.
“They…disagree with me.”
“Sorry,” said Randolph. “I didn’t know.”
“How could you?”
He reached for the platter in the center of the table. “Have a cream cake?”
With a smile, she took one.
Verity escaped the Greshams when the dancing began again after supper. It was a considerable relief to move down the ballroom with a stranger introduced by the hostess and talk of commonplace things. Not that she disliked Lord Randolph’s family. Quite the contrary. They were charming, interesting people. She’d been comfortable with them except for the part when she’d felt…interrogated? No, that wasn’t right. It had been like interviewing for a position without knowing what it was. No, that was silly. Like taking an examination in a subject for which she hadn’t prepared? Ridiculous. What was the matter with her? There was no reason to feel wrung out by the encounter. But she was. And she’d completely forgotten to ask Lord Randolph about the archbishop.
The set ended. Olivia’s friend Ronald asked her for the next. He was cheerfully cordial, and Verity glided over the awkwardness of not knowing his last name. When the music ended, he delivered Verity to Olivia with a flourish, demonstrating his obedience, and left them together.
“I always feel I should pat Ronald on the head, like a good dog,” Olivia said.
Verity laughed but said, “Don’t foist any more partners on me, please.”
“Wasn’t Ronald polite to you?”
“He was charming, but Mr. Wrentham clearly didn’t wish to dance with me.”
“Oh, Wrentham.” Olivia looked mischievous.
“He was much more interested to learn that Miss Reynolds is in London.”
“You told him that?”
“Of course I did, when he asked me. He was quite put out when I didn’t have her address in my pocket.”
“Well, drat it. Now I’ll have to—” She bit off the rest of her sentence.
“No more notes.” Verity realized that she didn’t trust her friend on this subject.
“I promised, didn’t I?” Olivia grinned. “Never mind them. I challenged Mr. Rochford to play cards with me.”
“You did not! What did he say?”
“He laughed.”
“So he refused?”
Olivia shook her head.
“He accepted?”
“Not yet.”
“I wish you’d forget this idea.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of being so infernally…circumscribed, when fellows our age can do pretty much whatever they please?”
“Yes, but not in the way you—”
“And married women, too, if they’re discreet.”
“My interests run in other areas.” A card game was trivial, Verity thought. She wanted to travel the world. And what had become of her plans in that regard? She hadn’t made any headway.
“You can’t tell me you disapprove of cards,” Olivia said. “You’re not one of those canting dissenters.”
“Of course not. I just don’t think Mr. Rochford is worth the trouble of a scandal.”
“Don’t force me to point out that you’re not the arbiter of my behavior.”
Olivia’s smile was pleasant, but Verity heard finality in her tone. They wouldn’t remain friends if she persisted.