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Lady Emily arrived late to the dowager duchess’s ball. By keeping an eye out, Greer was able to be among the first to greet her and ask for the favor of the next dance. As he whirled her around the floor, he noticed Beatrice with Lord Melton. That fellow seemed to be the only one he’d seen her with more than once. He hoped the man was a good sort.
As Greer steered Lady Emily into a turn, he nearly tripped over his own feet, making his heart race. The last thing he wanted was to embarrass the lady and ruin his chances with her.
Perhaps he should keep his nose out of Beatrice’s business. Moreover, he ought to keep his focus on his dance partner.
As Lady Emily suggested at the previous ball, Greer had called upon her earlier in the week, resulting in a most baffling encounter. As promised, she was in the parlor receiving visitors, but so was her mother. Thus, he couldn’t talk privately with her, nor did they speak about much of anything beyond the weather and what concerts and plays were currently in London’s theatres. And her mother did as much talking as Lady Emily. Then another visitor showed up — a rival, Greer realized — but he hadn’t worked up much worry over that. If the next gentleman had to curb his conversation similarly, then this business of visiting brought no one any closer to forming an attachment than dancing a quadrille.
After about fifteen minutes, without making it too obvious, the lady’s mother made him understand he should take his leave. He hadn’t even been offered tea.
The next step, Greer supposed, was to send her a formal invitation asking to escort her to a ball or even to one of the plays her mother had discussed. If to a dance, then Lady Emily and her chaperone would be under his protection for the night. They would ride in his carriage, and in between dances, she would come back to stand by him for the evening, even while she would be expected to dance with others.
The whole process was making his head spin. In New York City, he’d heard of matchmakers who handled all this for a goodly sum. He hadn’t thought to ask Beatrice if such a thing existed in London although he couldn’t imagine nobility signing up for such a forthright method. They seemed to like to send messages with their silly fans — another lesson from the Duchess of Pelham that had been mostly lost on him. If a lady put her fan to her cheek or her ear, he assumed she was scratching an itch. How was he to know if she were showing him some special attention?
And they had visiting hours in order to sit staunchly staring at one another and discuss the constant rainy skies. Why couldn’t they simply throw bags of toffee at one another? Whomever they hit would become their chosen mate.
As the dance ended, Greer looked around for Beatrice and saw her returning to the chairs by the curtains. Naturally, she was holding Lord Melton’s arm. Quickly, Greer escorted Lady Emily back to her mother, bowed low, and hurried to claim a dance with his toffee-maker.
“Shall we try this again?” he asked after the viscount had walked away.
Beatrice offered him her sassy smile. “I suppose. I hope it’s not another wretched quadrille.”
“Why? We’ve mastered the steps, don’t you think?”
“But with a waltz or a polka, if we make a mess of it, we don’t affect anyone else. Far less stressful to my way of thinking.”
“True, but there’s no reason to think we will mess up again, unless the dowager is shedding.”
Laughter burst out of her, and she clamped a hand over her mouth. “Don’t do that!” she scolded. “Do not make me laugh.”
“I like it when you laugh.” The flageolet blew its pretty tune.
She sighed as he took her hand. “I am the only female here who is braying like a donkey. You must stop being so charming.”
She found him charming! He liked that immensely, particularly as he wasn’t even trying. It was easy with Beatrice. Too easy.
“You have your wish,” he said as they got into position. “Not a quadrille but a waltz, the fast Viennese one, at that.”
Greer swept her effortlessly around the dance floor, the sole partner with whom he felt completely at ease. The natural turn, the reverse turn, the change step in between — they moved as one, their bodies never losing contact. On the other hand, with a close dance like this, she was also the one female who made him well aware of his palm pressed to her back, her soft hand grasped in his other hand.
Despite being surrounded by others, they moved as if in a bubble of their own making, the two of them and the music, and her lovely dress swishing around his legs nearly tripping him.
If he told her that, she’d laugh, so he didn’t.
“I could dance like this all night,” he said, the exuberance of the waltz uplifting his spirit, the beauty of this woman touching his heart.
“We’re not supposed to speak,” she said, “but I agree.”
Was that another rule, not speaking while dancing? He couldn’t recall it.
“Are we not allowed to speak or is that a suggestion so we don’t lose concentration? Because I for one—”
“Hush, Mr. Carson.” She gave him another smile to soften the admonishment, and they finished the dance in silence with him able to feel her heart beating against him as her vanilla fragrance surrounded him. How magnificent!
When the dance ended, he didn’t want to relinquish her. Seeing another man already lingering by their spot next to the curtains, obviously awaiting his turn, Greer did the unthinkable. He led Beatrice to the other side of the floor as if they were just about to partner for a dance rather than finishing.
“What are you doing?” she hissed, sounding alarmed that they were breaking some rule.
“I’m dancing with you again.”
She frowned slightly, then relaxed. “I suppose that’s all right since we don’t have any prior commitments. You don’t do you?”
“None.” He didn’t mention the man he’d seen who would now be sorely disappointed. While others paired up for a polka, Greer explained, “I have danced already with Lady Emily St. George, someone I’m considering as a potential wife. And I don’t know if she would deem it uncivilized or possibly the downfall of polite society were I to ask her for another dance tonight.”
“I see,” was all Beatrice said, and then the music began.
***
BEATRICE FELT AS IF she’d been punched in the stomach. Lady Emily St. George! Now she had a name for the female he was interested in. It was happening so quickly. The Season had been going but a couple weeks. Sadness washed over her at the notion of losing her friend, as would most assuredly happen. And while he was eager to dance with her a second time in a row, when it came to his lady friend, Mr. Carson wouldn’t risk staining her reputation with a second dance all evening.
Vaguely, she knew she ought to be insulted. On the other hand, no one cared about an unknown toffee heiress and an American, while a rumor about an earl’s daughter could spread like fire through dry kindling. And she knew Lady Emily to be such, for Lord St. George had been in the newspapers over the years for his vociferous support of the ’76 Medical Act and the Prison Act over the past summer. Besides, she didn’t feel the least bit wronged, not while she was to remain in Mr. Carson’s strong arms for another dance.
She might as well enjoy the best dance partner she had experienced so far. The others gripped her hand either too tightly, as Lord Melton had done, or disinterestedly. Some moved her around the floor as one might expect a general to direct his soldiers, while others seemed wholly disconnected. Some partners seemed to spend their time looking over her head and hardly seeming to notice whom they were leading.
With Mr. Carson, dancing was lively and warm. And although she knew she shouldn’t have such feelings, it was also romantic. Increasingly, she found those emotions difficult to keep at bay. Where his hand landed in the middle of her back, she felt his warmth searing her through the thin layers of her ballgown. And where their hands clasped together, it was like a link forged from affection.
With their bodies in a constant state of motion and touching, brushing across one another over and over, Beatrice thought she might melt from the sizzling sensations coursing through her before they finished the polka.
It was nothing at all like dancing with Lord Melton, nor any of the other men at previous balls. Nevertheless, when the dance ended, she thanked him coolly and let him escort her back to the side of the room, where another man quickly asked her for the upcoming mazurka.
A few dances later, when the end of the evening was in sight, Mr. Carson returned again, this time with a sheepish, hopeful expression on his handsome face. Beatrice found she neither wanted nor tried to say no. If this was to be her only Season, and if Mr. Carson was soon to be courting a lady in earnest — maybe becoming engaged — then Beatrice would enjoy him while she still could.
When the final dance came and she was asked by Lord Longden, whom she’d met weeks earlier at Amity’s ball, she watched Mr. Carson approach Lady Emily. Apparently he had decided he could risk her reputation after all.
And if it pained her more than it should, Beatrice at least had the memory of having been his friend and confidant. It would have to be enough.
***
BEATRICE WAS HUMMING as she wandered into the confectionery nearly at closing time the next day. She’d done something she almost never did — slept the day away, knowing her sisters could handle the shop. Often Charlotte opened, then Amity came to make chocolates, while Beatrice showed up midday, going directly to the back room. Later, she would close up by herself or with Amity, if she stayed the whole day. All three of them were hardly ever there at the same time for more than an hour or two unless it was a holiday, with Easter and Christmas being their busiest times.
Thus, when Charlotte asked Amity to make tea despite it being almost time for her to leave, and Amity agreed to drink the brew rather than hot chocolate, Beatrice knew something was up.
“You spent most of the evening dancing with Mr. Carson,” Charlotte said, once they had their mugs of steaming tea in hand.
So, her sisters were worried about her becoming attached to the one man at the ball she wasn’t supposed to and whom she could never have.
Truthfully, during the excitement of the event, she’d worried about that herself. At home in the wee hours, she’d wrestled with her thoughts and feelings, finally concluding she’d mistaken friendship for something more. And while it had been easier to talk and dance with Greer, as she’d come to think of him, than with any other man, she must attribute such to their familiarity with one another. That didn’t mean she was developing deep and lasting affection for him.
Nevertheless, when she laid her head upon her pillow and drew the American’s ascot out from underneath, giving it a hearty sniff, tears had pricked her eyes.
“Did I?” she asked, keeping her face placid.
“You know you did,” Charlotte said, then turned to Amity. “She did.”
“We didn’t have cards,” Beatrice pointed out, “so I really couldn’t keep track. I also danced with a viscount by the name of....” Her mind emptied, and all she could think of was Greer, with his slightly tussled hair as he whirled her around the dance floor.
“Lord Melton,” Charlotte supplied, while Amity pierced her with those rich brown eyes, both wise and warm.
“Yes, of course. Lord Melton,” Beatrice agreed. “He was nice, too. I danced with him nearly as much as I did with Mr. Carson, I believe.”
“She didn’t,” Charlotte said to Amity.
“Stop doing that,” Beatrice scolded. “I didn’t realize you were spying on me.” She glared at her tattletale younger sibling.
“I wasn’t,” Charlotte protested hotly. “We were supposed to be looking out for one another, weren’t we? In any case, all I did was search for you occasionally, and I always seemed to see you with Mr. Carson.”
“At the next dance, I shall endeavor not to dance with him at all, if that will make you happy.”
“I don’t think Charlotte is worrying about her own happiness,” Amity said softly, and Beatrice felt suitably chastised.
“I know.” She glanced at her younger sister, who looked uncharacteristically glum. “I apologize.” Brushing a stray curl from behind Charlotte’s ear, she added, “But you needn’t worry, at least not as to me and Mr. Carson. He told me he is pursuing Lady Emily St. George.”
“How exciting!” Charlotte said, returning to her usual enthusiasm with alacrity. “To think your plan might succeed.”
“Yes, to think.” Beatrice sipped her tea and avoided Amity’s questioning gaze until her eldest sister shrugged and let go of whatever thoughts were swirling in her inquisitive brain.
“Mother said you have quite a treat coming up later in the Season. In fact, we all do, for Henry and I shall attend as well. It’s a fancy-dress ball.”
“How exciting!” Charlotte exclaimed again, this time with a clap of her hands, and then, unable to contain her happiness another instant, she whistled her happiest note.
“Good God!” Beatrice said with a shake of her head. “Did you hear dogs barking in response?”
They all laughed and immediately, their interest turned to who would wear what costume.
Meanwhile, there were more events to get through, and increasingly, that was the feeling Beatrice had — that she must persevere, endure, and get through each one. Greer often had Lady Emily on his arm, and Beatrice found Lord Melton to be persistent in his pursuit of her, although she was careful not to lead him on since her regard for the viscount had not grown. She didn’t even want to try out a kiss with him. In truth, she felt more dispirited as the Season progressed, longing for the end of it. Charlotte, however, seemed to be feeling the opposite, growing ever more comfortable and happier.
Naturally, Greer still escorted them, but spoke no differently to her than he did to Charlotte. And when they did dance, as if by unspoken agreement, he remained politely distant, with no outbreaks of laughter between them, and never more than one dance. At the end of an event, when he took them home, he dropped them off with the briefest of parting words.
As soon as the sun was strong enough and no rain threatened, they attended a boating event. With lilacs in bloom and violets peeping from under every bush in Syon Park on the banks of the Duke of Northumberland’s home, they were helped into long row boats, powered by strong men from the London Rowing Club.
Beatrice sat on a cushioned bench seat with Charlotte behind her, each of them partnered with a single gentleman of good repute. Lord Melton was nowhere to be seen, which bothered Beatrice not at all. As usual, her attention was on Greer in another boat, seated as he inevitably was with Lady Emily.
Down river they traveled toward Kew Bridge and under it, and then they were rowed back up to the duke’s home. Although they were not welcomed inside Syon House, their medium-sized group of debutantes and eligible men were allowed to tour the neo-classical Great Conservatory, designed, as they all knew, by Charles Fowler, who’d also given Londoners the grandiose Piazza at Covent Garden.
Holding Charlotte’s arm, Beatrice exited the glass-domed conservatory for the exploratory stroll of the gardens. Somewhere close, they were to find an idyllic picnic already set out for them by their hostess, a friend of the sixth Duke of Northumberland and his kind duchess.
Sure enough, around a copse of trees, Lady Anne Gravens, their hostess, stood with those intrepid souls who’d made it already to the luncheon site, including Lady Emily and Greer. Five long tables with white cloths and wooden folding chairs, with a brilliant white canopy overhead, that was Lady Gravens’ idea of a rustic picnic.
“Let’s hope it’s not a four-hour affair,” Beatrice grumbled, seeing Greer take a seat at the end of one table and making sure to point Charlotte toward a table as far away from him as possible. Naturally, the men with whom they’d boated now sought them out to pile on the agony by sitting with them for the picnic.
“But we came by train,” Charlotte reminded her. “It will take us practically no time to get home. We can stay here all day.”
It seemed to Beatrice as if she already had been there all day, and as rolls and roast chicken, cold ham, and meat pies were set out along with every type of vegetable, she longed to climb back into a carriage for the quick jaunt to Kew Bridge railway station, then board a train and go home.
“Isn’t this fun?” asked the man who’d sat beside Charlotte on the rowboat.
“Is it?” Beatrice snapped, setting down her glass of lemonade with a thump. “The threat of rain seems to be growing, and the longer this food sits out, the more apt we are to find flies feasting on it. Everyone ought to eat quickly so we can go home at a reasonable hour. I’m sure none of the ladies here want to be trudging out of Charing Cross station in the pitch black.”
Charlotte sighed and shook her head, making Beatrice feel childish and dramatic. She would try to do better. To that end, she offered her silent companions the slightest of smiles, which was all she could muster.
“The repast does look delicious. Decidedly tasty,” she conceded. “Lady Gravens’ caterer has done very well.”
However, a few minutes later, seeing Greer and Lady Emily laughing over some private joke made her nearly lose her lunch and ruined any enjoyment of the cream sponge-cake she was about to eat. She set down her fork.
“What’s next?” she asked Charlotte.
“I believe they’re serving tea,” Charlotte said, pointing to servants striding across the lawn from an outbuilding where they were handling all the lunch preparations.
“Drat it all!” Beatrice exclaimed, unable to maintain her pleasant demeanor when the harpy inside of her was feeling wounded and envious. The tea service could extend the outing by an hour.
“If you will excuse me,” she said, encompassing both her sister and their tag-alongs, “I’m going to take a walk.”
Striding off through Syon Park, Beatrice wondered if she would be tossed out on her bustle should she attempt to gain entrance to the duke’s magnificent home. Perhaps she could explain how she had a duke in her family, so they were all as one.
Amused by her own thoughts, Beatrice soon reached the water’s edge where they had launched the rowboats hours earlier, and then she made her way to a gazebo overlooking the Thames.
It was surprisingly peaceful, rather like the back room at Rare Confectionery when everyone else had left and no pesky customers had entered. Despite the river rushing by five yards away, filled with boats of every shape and size, and despite knowing there was a group of eager single people over the knoll drinking tea and gorging on sponge-cake, Beatrice felt alone. At the same time, she wasn’t lonely, only contemplative.
Sitting on the built-in bench that ringed the gazebo’s interior, she leaned her head back and looked up at the cooing sounds. Pigeons roosted in the rafters overhead. At that moment, one decided to let loose a nasty, whitish-grey mess that plopped beside her.
“Bugger it,” she muttered, wondering whether to risk sitting beneath them or try to make them vacate the structure. “Shoo,” she called out, but, except for them jostling around and more of the nasty droppings, none of them paid her any mind.
Perhaps if she chucked something at them, but she could see nothing at hand, and she wasn’t about to break limbs off the duke’s shrubberies, even if she could.
All at once, she had the answer. One of her ankle boots would get them to shift so she could sit without fear of them ruining the tidy, fitted blue jacket and skirt she wore. With that intent, she unlaced one of her boots, stood on the bench she’d just vacated, and hurled it at the bustling birds.
Two things happened at once — all the pigeons took flight, heading directly toward her, and as she screamed in alarm, she heard Greer Carson’s voice, “What on earth are you playing at?”
Waving her hands over her head, eyes closed, she was sure she felt a beak or a claw graze her gloved hands and snag at the pretty ribbons on her hat, and then abruptly, they were gone. When Beatrice opened her eyes at the silence, the American stood in front of her and a few feathers floated in the air.
“I simply wanted to scare them off,” she said, her heart racing both at the birds and at Greer looking up at her.
After staring at her a long moment, he offered his hand so he could help her down, but she looked over his shoulder. “Where is Lady Emily?”
“Drinking tea, as you should be, as every English lass should.”
His smile made her stomach flip.
“Take my hand, Miss Rare-Foure, and step down.”
She let him grasp her fingers in his, but as she went to jump down, he moved closer and caught her by the waist, letting her slide down the front of him. Her feet landed on top of his leather boots, and the toes of her right foot could feel the hard leather through her stockings.
Looking up at him, she knew they were much too close for civility’s sake. If someone found them like this — anyone who gave a tinker’s damn — he or she might get the wrong impression. Beatrice could see deep silvery flecks in his gray-blue eyes and smell his fresh, cedar-soap scent. What’s more, his penetrating gaze locked on hers before dropping to her mouth. She licked her suddenly dry lips, and his pupils dilated.
Oh dear!