| |
Beatrice knew she ought to be embarrassed or even ashamed at letting herself be kissed, not once but twice. And yet, she wasn’t. She had thoroughly enjoyed both kisses. Moreover, they’d harmed no one in the process although if they’d been caught, it would have been an entirely different story.
Imagine if her mother had demanded Greer marry her and ruin all his plans! Beatrice wouldn’t have cooperated, but it would have ended their friendship. It was a good thing Felicity Rare-Foure was in France.
In any case, Beatrice didn’t feel as though he were playing with her. He seemed as compelled to kiss her as she’d been to accept his inappropriate attentions. If he had tried to do more while they were secluded, she would have known him for a rogue, but he had hardly touched her except for his warm hands on her head.
The touch of his hands alone had caused her stomach to twinge with excitement. And the feel of his mouth upon hers ... that made all her insides heat up and become like melted butter.
She hoped her hair wasn’t in disarray. On the pretense of glancing in the next store window, Beatrice took in her reflection. Her hat was a little crooked, but her cloak hid any crumpled clothing. Would the maid notice? Or Charlotte?
“It’s merely a fifteen-minute stroll,” she said suddenly, hoping he didn’t think her odd for walking when everyone was mad for cabs. “Not too far from Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum. Have you visited it?”
“No. I’ve certainly heard of it. It has as a gruesome room, I understand.”
“Indeed, the Chamber of Horrors. It’s not for the faint of heart, unless you keep reminding yourself it is wax after all. On the other hand, since the so-called dungeon does represent actual events, when you look at such realistic figures enduring the French Revolution, it gives one gooseflesh. There are also wonderful likenesses upstairs, like George IV, in his magnificent coronation robes, and the queen herself, bless her, along with the late prince consort.”
“I would like to see it,” he said. “Will you go with me? My treat.”
She hesitated, not because it was a shilling and sixpence for entrance into the whole museum, but because it seemed the type of thing he should do with his new lady friend.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“That you should take Lady Emily.”
He went quiet for a few moments. At last, he asked, “Do you think it a particularly romantic place?”
Beatrice laughed. “Hardly that.”
“Then I see no reason we could not go as friends. Lady Emily might not find it to her liking, and I would prefer to go with you.”
“Why?” She wasn’t fishing for a compliment, but knowing Greer to be forthright, she was curious to hear his answer.
“Because you are fun. I’m sure we would laugh a lot even in the dungeon.”
“The museum displays the ‘celebrated’ murderers as well as their victims. Do you know Madame Tussaud herself nearly went to the guillotine? If not for an influential friend, such a great artist would be long dead, and we wouldn’t have wax dummies in the perfect likeness of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette.”
“I look forward to it,” he said.
“It is definitely worth seeing,” she admitted, still not committing. She recalled her mother had told her to stay clear of Greer Carson so as not to annoy Lady Emily.
“We can go tomorrow or the next day,” Greer proposed, “or whenever it suits you.”
He was certainly being accommodating. “We’ll see. Meanwhile, tell me, what else you have seen.”
“Westminster Abbey, naturally, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Houses of Parliament, and The Tower.”
She nodded. “All worthy sights. And so many more to see. Parks and museums, palaces and London Bridge. And we have some lovely theatres.”
Then she considered his new station as a beau. “I think most of those you will find to be romantic and perfect for escorting your new lady.”
“We’ll see,” he said, as noncommittally as she had.
“Perhaps Lady Emily would enjoy the crypt at Gerard's Hall,” she said, teasingly.
He coughed. “Perhaps.”
“Or the crypt at Guildhall or St. John’s.”
He started to laugh. “I cannot imagine the reaction if I showed up to escort her and told her and her chaperone we were going to tour crypts.”
She chuckled, glad he found it amusing.
“I’ve heard the Elgin marbles are worth a look,” he added.
“Definitely. As well as the Townley marbles. I don’t know why everyone focuses on Lord Elgin’s clever bit of thievery from the Greeks.”
“Precisely because it was so clever, I suspect. But I would like to see what Townley brought back from Italy, too.”
She spoke carefully, measuring her words. “I believe museums, except for Madame Tussaud’s, are considered to have an aura of romance. At least, I think they do. The paintings and sculptures can bring one to quite a passionate sentiment, best experienced with one for whom you have deep emotions.”
Greer stopped dead in his tracks. “Why, Miss Rare-Foure, that is the most surprising thing you’ve said to me yet.”
“Really?” Beatrice couldn’t imagine why. “Do you not have a great appreciation for the arts?”
“I do, in fact. Although I’ve felt that passionate sentiment you mention when looking at the spacious sky over the plains of America on a sunny day, as blue as your eyes and about as deep.”
Funny he should mention her eyes, which she’d thought to be almost a failing in her family of richly warm, brown-eyed siblings and parents.
“Or the mountains in Colorado, or even the ocean waves. I suppose one can never guess where or what may cause passion to spring up in one. However, I suppose you believe I should go to museums solely with Lady Emily, in case I am overcome.”
She chuckled at how ridiculous he made that sound.
“I might swoon into her arms in front of a Dutch masterpiece,” he continued. “Or collapse at her feet at the sight of a bust of some long-dead king.”
“One never knows, Mr. Carson. Best to be with the right person at the time.”
“Nevertheless, I would risk going to see the Elgin marbles with you, Miss Rare-Foure, because you are good company.”
She felt warm all over. “Let’s go to Tussaud’s and see how we do. Naturally, we will need a chaperone. Charlotte, at the very least.”
He shook his head. “Yet we are walking alone at present.”
“Hardly alone,” she pointed out, as they fought the tide of pedestrians. “Surrounded by well-heeled Londoners on a street of luxury shops. We might not even be associated with one another, but simply allowing happenstance to push our feet along the same path.”
“I wondered if it were appropriate to take your arm,” he offered.
“No, thank you. That would imply an arrangement between us, an understanding of the kind you seek with Lady Emily.”
The kind she had hoped to have with some eligible bachelor, but could no longer imagine with anyone other than Greer Carson. It was downright irritating! He was an uncouth American, and she had danced with London’s finest. And she had found them all lacking, or at least not as appealing in comparison to the man she’d come to know. She supposed Lord Melton was the least objectionable of the lot.
“I think the more time you devote to Lady Emily, or I spend with some viscount or other” — it didn’t matter which one! — “the better it will be. Truthfully, I think you should reserve all museum-going and other sightseeing for someone you are trying to woo and win.”
“Except for Madame Tussaud’s,” he persisted, and she glanced at him. Greer was smiling down at her.
“Except for that, yes,” she agreed.
And then, he ran headlong into a couple coming in the other direction, knocking down the woman, while the man who’d been holding her arm nearly fell as well.
“My word!” the man exclaimed, as his hat went flying. Immediately, he turned to assist the woman off the pavement.
Greer dove forward, grabbed hold of her other hand, and yanked her to her feet. Beatrice put a hand to her mouth, gasping. He should not have touched the lady so informally without even a by-your-leave. What’s more, she watched as the man’s hat rolled a few feet and disappeared into the sea of pant legs and gowns.
Dashing forward, she tried to retrieve it only to spy it at the exact moment a man trod upon it unaware. Looking down, he kicked it to the side and continued on.
“Bugger it!” Beatrice muttered under her breath. A second later, a familiar face bent down and retrieved the hat.
Hurrying toward him, Beatrice said, “Lord Melton, so good of you to pick up the hat.”
When he hesitated, she feared he had no idea who she was outside of the ballroom and a gorgeous gown. She saw the instant he realized it was her, clad in a simple day dress. Smiling, he bowed, and she nodded in return.
“Miss Rare-Foure. How unexpected, and most fortunate in this case. We were both doing a little shopping apparently.”
She didn’t correct his assumption, which was perfectly sensible when seeing someone on New Bond Street, except she didn’t have a package or bag as evidence of such an idle pastime.
Keeping her wrapped hand under her cloak in case he asked questions, she gestured with her other one to the flattened felt bowler.
Lord Melton examined the squashed hat in his hands, turning it over to look inside. “A shame. It was a good one from Lock’s,” he proclaimed. Then he gave her a quizzical look. “This ruined hat cannot possibly be yours.”
“Thankfully, no. But I saw it come off the head of a gentleman over there,” she pointed behind her, “and was hoping to recover it for him.”
“I dare say the man will not care for its return in such a condition, but let us try.”
Walking beside her, they returned to the scene where the lady was turning in circles so her husband, as Beatrice assumed him to be, could determine if she had ripped or soiled her skirts. Alas, she had done both. Greer was uttering words of apology, which were being ignored.
“My hat!” the man exclaimed, sadly eyeing the damaged item that Lord Melton handed him.
“It was trod upon before I could rescue it,” Beatrice explained.
“This lady is correct,” Lord Melton said. “It seems you need to take better care of your headwear and your companion.”
While Lord Melton said the insulting words, he didn’t so much as crack a smile. Greer, however, made the dreadful error of chuckling. Beatrice cringed inwardly. The American apparently thought they were all going to have a good and friendly laugh over the couple’s mishap.
He was wrong.
The man with the ruined hat began to splutter. The lady whose dress was torn, with her petticoats on display, began to cry, and Beatrice wished she could back away from the mess, but Greer still held her satchel.
Lord Melton, on the other hand, was able to leave. Leaning close to the affronted couple, the viscount said conspiratorially yet so all could hear, “You must forgive him. He is an American.”
With that, he turned to Beatrice. “I shall see you at the fancy-dress ball, I hope.” Then he nodded and strode off. Lucky nobleman, she thought.
“My friend will make restitutions for any damage,” she offered.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Greer said cheerfully. To her horror, he started digging in his pocket. Quick as a lightning flash, she set her hand on his arm and stilled his movements.
“If you will give us your card,” she said to the man, “my friend will—”
“Don’t you have a card?” the affronted woman asked, her nose high.
Greer didn’t take offense. “I do, but it will do you no good as my last fixed abode was in New York City. My name is Carson, and I’m staying at the Langham, if you wish to send me a bill there.”
“The Langham!” repeated the man. Then he glanced at his wife, looking more respectful as Beatrice noticed the hint of money often caused people to be. “Very well. I’ll send you an account of my purchase of a new hat, and whatever my wife needs.”
“Well, not whatever your wife needs,” Greer joked.
Beatrice nearly slapped a hand over his mouth. He truly was beyond the pale. “He’s joking,” she said. “He’s from—”
“America,” the wife repeated. “Yes, we heard. I’m sure I’ll need a new skirt and maybe a petticoat. Good day.” She grabbed her husband’s arm, and they marched off.
“You’ll probably end up buying them both a new wardrobe,” she said. “You really mustn’t joke with the wrong people.”
“Everyone around here seems to be the wrong people, except you. And they can try, but I’m no dupe. I’ll pay for her skirt and his hat, and that’s all.”
She sighed.
***
“I CANNOT BELIEVE MOTHER is missing all this,” Charlotte said as she stood with her two sisters in costume at Marlborough House, “including seeing us.” She twirled happily where she stood.
Since they were neighbors with the Prince and Princess of Wales, Amity and the duke had eschewed their carriage and walked to the fancy-dress ball dressed as King Louis and Marie Antoinette.
“I don’t know how you can hold your head up with that powdered monstrosity on your head,” Beatrice said to her older sister, whose rose-and-gold silk gown consisted of a rigid, eighteenth-century-style front panel encrusted with seed pearls, a low décolletage, and miles of silk looped up over her hips to show her fine matching petticoats.
“You could be at one of Queen Victoria’s famed bal poudré we read about from when she was a young bride,” Charlotte agreed.
“It’s not so bad,” Amity said, lifting a bejeweled hand to touch the tall wig from which swags of pearls were draped. “But I can hardly breathe in this stomacher.”
Beatrice’s own wig of blond ringlets was much simpler and manageable. Seeing herself in the mirror at home as Charlotte helped her apply pink to her cheeks and perfectly painted her lips, she’d allowed herself a satisfied smile. Then Delia had set a pastoral bonnet atop the wig and offered her a basket. She’d refused it, flowers and all.
“Don’t forget to take cloaks,” their maid reminded them, although they’d decided not to wear them until after the ball. “Keep them over your arms for now,” Delia said, “but wear them home, or you’ll catch your death of cold.”
Beatrice had rolled her eyes. Her brother-in-law’s coach was heated with bricks for evening rides, and he had sent it to fetch them.
“We are not coming home tonight,” she had reminded Delia. “We’ll be at Amity’s house after the ball, so please don’t worry or wait up.”
Finally meeting up with Amity and the duke at Marlborough House, Beatrice thought it breathtaking, scarcely believing she and Charlotte were a part of this extravagant event. The Rare-Foure sisters! A shopkeeper’s daughters!
The pretense was not merely in their costumes, it was in their even being at such a place with the highest echelon of British society, not to mention some of Europe’s heads of state. They were interlopers, except for Amity who legitimately belonged.
“How do I look?” Charlotte asked for the umpteenth time. “It will be so much fun to dance dressed like this.” And she did a few steps and curtsied before them.
“I wish I could move that easily,” Amity said, remaining rigidly upright as Lord Pelham returned to their little group followed by a servant carrying glasses of champagne. “But dance I shall,” she added, looking at her beloved husband.
“My wife never misses a moment to be in my arms,” he said, his kingly costume every bit as impressive as Amity’s, right down to his full-skirted knee-length coat, knee breeches, and long waistcoat, all in pale pink silk to complement his queen’s gown.
“Matching wigs, how adorable,” Beatrice quipped, even though the duke’s was down to his shoulders and partly covered by a gigantic tricorne hat. This was the one event in which men wore hats of every shape and size and didn’t remove them, not even to dance.
“How do I look?” Charlotte repeated.
“Like a true Turkish peasant,” Amity assured her, even though Beatrice doubted very much whether any of them looked authentic. Surely Charlotte’s scarlet bodice was too finely made, not to mention low-cut, to have been worn on a daily basis, and her sister’s short, midnight-blue skirt showed a bit too much of her brightly colored silk pantaloons. A small blue turban and scarlet slippers with toes that curled up, purchased specially for the occasion, completed her costume.
Beatrice’s own white cotton pantaloons were also on display with her blue brushed-cotton overskirt looped up to reveal her shortened petticoats consisting of many layers of voluminous Belgian lace. With puffy, white cotton sleeves, and her simple blue bodice laced up the front, she was their modiste’s idea of a shepherdess.
“I can only hope I don’t look a fool,” she mused. “I think most of the costumes here were made to fatten the tailors’ and seamstresses’ bank accounts more than to make any of us look good.”
“I look good,” Charlotte insisted.
“You do,” the duke said. “Nevertheless, your sister is correct. This single ball has boosted London’s economy as well as that of Paris and Brussels.”
They looked out over the sea of partygoers, the upper classes decked out in the finest costumes, none of which would probably ever be worn again.
Suddenly, they were surrounded by nobility. The Duke of Pelham’s friends, Lords Waverly and Jeffcoat, who hadn’t been at any of the events all Season, had turned out for this one. Lord Waverly was a Viking, with a horned helmet, leather straps going up and down his sleeves, and a floor-length fur mantle. And Lord Jeffcoat was dressed in knee-high boots, green hose, and a thigh-length tunic. The small cocky cap on his head with a feather in it, the quiver slung over one shoulder, and the bow made evident his identity.
“Robin Hood,” Charlotte exclaimed, and he stuck his pointed boot out, bowing to her with an exaggerated salute of his hat brushed low across his outstretched ankle.
Looking the two men up and down, the duke laughed.
“You cannot possibly find our costumes amusing,” Waverly remarked, “not when you are dressed like a man who couldn’t keep his head.”
“If I had to wear that ridiculous horned thing, I wouldn’t want to keep my head,” the duke returned. “Nor Jeffcoat’s green stockings, either.”
After the ladies had all been complimented, the three men began to converse about the recent Water Act, glad it had passed. With Amity and Charlotte discussing the dances that would be performed by members of the royal family and their friends before the rest of the guests took to the floor, Beatrice’s gaze wandered out over the growing throng.
Luckily, with the duke having been inside Marlborough House on prior occasions, he’d been able to give her a landmark as to where they would stand — in the Blenheim Saloon, as it was called, because of the painting of the Battle of Blenheim. Many called it the “handsomest room in London.” The black-and-white marble floor reminded Beatrice of a chess board, but she remained to the left of the great fireplace, as this was the location she’d given to Greer. Otherwise, considering how the palace, elegantly designed by the famed Sir Christopher Wren, had grown to something on the order of two hundred rooms, Beatrice knew it would be highly probable she and the American wouldn’t even encounter one another that night. And that would make the entire event seem almost like a waste of time.
She reminded herself she had also promised a dance to Lord Melton, who had increased his pursuit of her recently, calling upon her at home again the day after the hat incident, luckily before she’d had to leave for the shop. Strangely, he’d assumed she played the pianoforte, sang like a bird, or both, and he’d been perplexed by her parents’ poor preparation for their daughter’s future as wife and hostess when she told him she could do neither.
“How will you entertain dinner guests?” he had asked, looking perplexed, tilting his good head of hair to the side.
She paused for a moment. “I don’t suppose you approve of a round of Happy Families?”
He’d frowned and repeated, “Happy Families?”
“It’s a card game,” Beatrice had told him. His eyebrows shot together in consternation.
What did Amity do to amuse her guests? Beatrice assumed she and the duke hired musicians since her sister couldn’t play or sing either.
“I could take guests into the kitchen and show them how to make toffee,” she offered, only half-joking, hoping to discover if he still thought her an heiress.
“Truly?” Lord Melton had looked interested in toffee-making as if he assumed it was quite a difficult skill, almost magical, rather than something any half-decent cook could do, in her opinion. Not as well as she could, naturally, but passably.
“Or I could recite a passage,” Beatrice had offered. “I have a good memory and am well-read.”
“While I think recitation is a good exercise, I fear your feminine literature might not be enjoyed by all our guests.”
“You mean by the men?” she’d asked, a little distracted by his use of “our.” Did he assume they had an understanding? “I didn’t realize gentlemen wouldn’t enjoy hearing the adventures of Odysseus, perhaps in the original Greek, or a passage from Shakespeare’s Hamlet.”
He’d coughed, firmly put in his place. Feminine literature indeed! She’d shown him the door soon after, as she’d had to get to work.
As if thinking of the viscount conjured the man, Lord Melton appeared in their midst. He greeted everyone in turn.
“Good evening, Dresden china miss.”
She looked him up and down. “Good evening, Ali Baba.” He appeared exotic in his turban and silks, and even somewhat appealing.
“You look quite the part,” he commented. “The blonde hair suits you very well.” She’d grown used to him and his ways over the past weeks. He was attentive when they danced and, during conversation, was apt to toss in a compliment regarding her looks, as if he assumed that would please her beyond anything else.
On the other hand, he was often aristocratically cool, and Beatrice realized she couldn’t tell if he was becoming attached to her. Was he even truly interested?
She promised him a dance after the opening royal quadrilles, and he said he would return in due time, plainly unbothered whether they conversed or not in the meanwhile. As she watched his retreating figure, the notion Lord Melton would ever try to kiss her or that she would feel sizzling passion emanating from him seemed laughable.
After he left, she waited for the three lords to take a breath before interrupting.
“Tell me, Your Grace, do members of the ton behave in a cool and disinterested manner right up until the time they ask a woman for her hand?”
Along with Waverly and Jeffcoat, Amity’s husband was taken aback, his mouth opening and then closing, while the duchess waited for his answer along with Beatrice and Charlotte.
“Did I hear the flageolet?” the duke asked cocking his head, his eyes looking slightly wild.
“No,” Lord Waverly said, his mouth working into a wicked smile. “You didn’t. When the first dancers come out, believe me, it will be as if the Red Sea has parted, and we shall be flattened like shirts in a valet’s mangle. Answer the lady, Pelham.”
His Grace frowned, and Amity put her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure my sister is trying to figure out the strange ways of noblemen, just as I am still doing.”
The duke rolled his eyes while Lords Waverly and Jeffcoat laughed. “Strange ways of noblemen, indeed,” the latter said.
However, since all three Rare-Foure sisters, including his wife, were still gazing at him, the duke shrugged. “I suppose we are counseled to remain impassive until we have an inkling that a lady returns our affection.”
“Agreed,” Jeffcoat said. “It’s prudent to do so and avoid embarrassment on all sides.” Lord Waverly nodded in agreement.
“So, a lord might actually be interested in our Beatrice,” Charlotte asked, “even if he has all the warmth of a dead fish?”
The men all laughed even harder.
“Inappropriate,” Beatrice reprimanded her, then looked at the duke. “Might he?”
His eyes widened. “I assure you I have no idea. Which gentleman are we talking about?”
Realizing His Grace hadn’t apparently noticed Lord Melton’s arrival and quick departure, Beatrice opened her mouth to tell him when Charlotte sighed loudly.
“I hope your viscount is interested. How exciting for you and in only one Season!”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Beatrice said, thinking it unlikely Lord Melton would unexpectedly spark her interest or declare himself. “But we can still appreciate Mr. Carson’s success.” She glanced around and those around her did, too. “I don’t mean at present, for I have no idea where he is. What I mean to say is, he seems to have found himself a wife.”
The words came out sounding displeased, causing Amity to send her a sharp glance.
“A nice lady, I understand,” Beatrice amended in a kinder tone. “Do you know Lady Emily St. George, Duke?”
“I do not, although I know of the St. George family. Nothing scandalous or particularly interesting I can bring to mind.”
He looked to his friends who shrugged in agreement. “I think I danced with her once,” Waverly added.
“I think you’ve danced with everyone once,” Jeffcoat quipped.
“At any rate,” the duke continued, “the earl is active in Parliament, and I agree with many of his views.”
“Good,” Beatrice said softly, as if that concerned her. It didn’t. She wasn’t sure if she were jealous enough to have hoped for a hot cup of gossip-water, which she could relate to Greer, perhaps to end his pursuit of Lady Emily, or whether she was simply looking out for her friend. Moreover, she didn’t want to examine her motives too closely.
“Shouldn’t we mingle before the dancing?” Charlotte asked. “I want to see the Prince and Princess of Wales up close if possible, and as many costumes as I can.”
“Yes, let’s,” Amity agreed, and the six of them began the rounds of the large rooms opened for the ball, filled with merrymakers dressed for every period and place on earth, or so it seemed.
“They say there will be fourteen hundred people here tonight,” Lord Jeffcoat remarked.
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Lord Waverly replied. “The royals always have to do it better than anyone else.”
Beatrice trailed behind, reluctant to leave the prearranged meeting spot. When Amity dropped back with her sisters, they let the three men walk ahead.
“Henry’s friends are pleasant,” she said.
Beatrice frowned. Neither man interested her. “Are they?” she asked crabbily.
Although glancing sideways, she noticed Charlotte had blushed at their sister’s comment. Perhaps she was interested in one of the lords.
Before she could pry further, Beatrice felt a tap upon her shoulder. Spinning around, there at last was Greer Carson.