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“Good evening.” Greer Carson bowed. “I’m glad I caught up with you, china doll, clearly the best-dressed shepherdess who ever attempted to herd sheep.”
Beatrice took in the welcome sight of him, with her heart immediately beating faster and her happiness level spiking.
“A savage!” she exclaimed.
“A native of my country,” he confirmed.
“Well done!” She’d never seen anything quite like it except in a book. He wore a headdress that was as tall as Amity’s wig but made of feathers, and a leather vest over — an entirely bare chest! — and soft leather pants. Even his feet were clad in strange shoes with beaded tassels, more like women’s dancing slippers than anything she’d ever seen on a man.
“Moccasins,” he said, lifting a foot. “Very comfortable.”
They smiled at each other, but she couldn’t help her glance returning to his chest. From what she could see, it was a nice one, not that she was any judge. She wanted to reach out and brush the sprinkling of hair visible where his buckskin vest didn’t close, and she clenched her hands at her sides. Imagine the scandal if she gave in to her impulse!
Dragging her gaze back to his, Beatrice recalled their discussion of costumes weeks earlier. “I thought you didn’t want to bring too much attention to yourself not being from here,” she challenged.
“I changed my mind,” he said. “My accent gives me away anyway, and most people have been welcoming.”
Beatrice thought of Lord Melton, who’d said something slightly disparaging on more than one occasion regarding the habits of Americans. However, as long as Lady Emily didn’t mind Greer’s foreignness, she supposed that was all he cared about.
Looking her up and down with a glimmer in his eye, he asked, “So no crook or lamb? What a disappointment.”
She shrugged. “And you don’t have a buffalo. Another disappointment.”
“I suppose I could have put a costume on Miss Sylvia and brought her as my companion.”
They grinned at each other at the notion.
As usual, he then asked about her hand, which had healed nicely due to his ministrations — followed by Delia soaking Beatrice’s hand in milk before gently cleaning off the butter and honey, and then applying a poultice of tea leaves held in place with a clean linen bandage, which she’d kept on overnight.
“Perfectly fine, thanks to you,” Beatrice responded as she did whenever he asked.
Greer nodded his satisfaction. “Are you heading for the dance floor?” he asked.
“No, we were going to make the rounds.” Looking behind her, she realized the rest of her group had kept walking and were now lost to her sight. “Would you care to accompany me?”
“I would be honored.” He took her arm, and she could feel the warmth emanating from him, particularly aware of his bare chest so close to her.
“You managed to find a very authentic costume,” she managed.
“Not really. If I’d had the brazenness of an Indian warrior, I would not be wearing this vest. The tailor I went to suggested I might not be allowed in without it, or if I was, the focus would be wholly on me rather than on the Prince and Princess of Wales.”
The man had been right about that. As it was, Beatrice could hardly credit she was walking through one of the most opulent homes in London, if not all of England, with a scantily clad, shirtless man.
Out loud, she mused, “I wonder what Lady Emily will have to say.”
He chuckled. “The odds I shall even see her tonight are very slim. I can hardly believe I found you for that matter. Another moment of your walking away from that mammoth fireplace, and I wouldn’t have.”
“When the flageolet sounds, or whatever they’re using here tonight, perhaps a trumpet—”
“Or twenty,” he joked.
“Indeed! I shall have to return to the Blenheim Saloon if I am ever to find my sisters again. That’s where they will go looking, perhaps after the dancing.” She tightened her grip upon his arm and pointed. “Look at that costume.”
“The wasp woman? Very clever.” They watched the lady stroll past with a black-and-yellow, sharply pointed front panel to her gown, and small wings protruding from her shoulders.
Greer pointed out the next stunning one, a woman dressed as a snowflake. “Now I can truly say that I have seen the elephant.”
“Where?” she demanded, craning her neck. Someone dressed as an elephant would be far more impressive than a wasp.
He chuckled. “Just a saying. I guess it’s an American one if you don’t know it.”
She frowned, shaking her head slightly.
“Have you ever seen one?” he asked.
“An elephant? Of course. This is London. There is almost nothing you cannot find here. Ten years ago, our Zoological Society traded a rhinoceros to the French for an elephant. Don’t you think that was silly of the French? I mean, an elephant! It’s the most amazing creature.”
“And that’s what the phrase means. I can’t imagine seeing a ball or even a group of people more spectacular than this one.”
“Very good, Mr. Carson. I like that. To see the elephant. I shall use it in the future.”
They continued their promenade. Beatrice couldn’t help noticing more than one lady gave her escort a second glance, and a third. It was not every day one saw so much of a man’s upper body. In fact, never.
There were so many daring and inventive costumes, Beatrice felt almost dowdy. “That lady is a rainbow,” Greer directed her gaze. “And that man can only be Henry the VIII. And you said I wouldn’t know one king from another.”
“I should have thought of something more exciting,” Beatrice fretted.
“You look absolutely perfect,” he told her, stopping their forward progress and gazing down at her. “Your dressmaker captured the color of your eyes exactly right in your gown, and the whole effect makes me feel as if you’ve brought a summer’s day, complete with green fields and sheep, right here into this palace, even without a crook in your hand.”
Her cheeks warmed. “That’s very kind of you. Certainly more thoughtful than what Lord Melton said.” She bit her tongue for even mentioning the man. She was not trying to make Greer jealous. Was she?
He frowned. “I’m surprised the man was able to find you. What did the churl say?”
She giggled. “He’s not a churl, for goodness sake. Simply reserved and a little—”
“Lifeless.” His forearm tightened and bulged under her fingers, causing her attention to be completely captivated for a moment. Never would she have guessed Greer had been concealing such a muscular physique under his clothing.
“You deserve someone more invigorating,” he continued.
And more fun, she thought. Like the man whose arm she was holding.
Suddenly, a loud trumpet sounded signifying the start of the evening’s entertainment, and a surge of guests bore down upon them, racing in the direction of the horn.
Greer tightened his hold on her arm, and Beatrice was grateful not to be swept away from him on a tide of wigs, massive hoop skirts, and sea captains’ sabers.
“I think we should go back to where my sisters can discover us.”
Greer led the way, and she held onto him with a firm grip, fearing if she lost hold of his arm, she would never see anyone she knew for the rest of the evening. A lost Dresden china, without her flock.
“As long as we can see something from that vantage point,” he said. “Let’s keep a little away from the wall.”
All at once, the music began, and crowds surged again to give space to the dancers getting into formation.
Beatrice and Greer were both tall enough to see what was happening, but she feared Amity and Charlotte would miss the royals dancing unless they were on the very front edge of the enraptured audience. With all the participants of the first dance dressed as Venetian characters, including the Princess of Wales in a ruby-colored satin dress, with a blue paneled front and sleeves of satin puffings edged with gold and pearls, the first quadrille was underway.
Out of the corner of her eye, Beatrice saw a small group approaching. Assuming it was her sisters and the duke, she turned with a welcoming smile.
Lord Melton, wearing a furious expression, came to a halt, putting hands to his hips. Of all people, Lady Emily accompanied him. She was dressed as Faust’s Marguerite with the telltale square neckline and sleeves with horizontal puffs, looking far more sophisticated than Beatrice, she noted with dismay. With them was the St. George cousin with whom Charlotte had once danced, dressed as a gondolier with long striped pants and a cap.
The one who’d asked questions, as Beatrice recalled with a start. She caught her breath, knowing by the countenances of Lord Melton and the two St. Georges that the jig was up.
“You are an imposter!” Lord Melton said with evident virulence while still two yards away, in a voice loud enough to rival the musicians in the distance and causing a circle of onlookers to back up and make room for this latest entertainment. “I have been deceived all Season by this woman.” He raised a hand and pointed toward her, as if there was any doubt as to whom he referred.
Beatrice felt the blood drain from her head. Finally, the icy viscount showed a little mettle. Unluckily, it was directed at her. She wished he’d retained his cool, aristocratic head rather than demonstrating he had a depth of emotion after all.
Glancing around himself, perhaps gauging the attention he was drawing, he appeared satisfied that he’d enticed at least a few to listen to his diatribe.
“She is a deceiver, an avaricious husband-hunter. A common shopgirl!” he bit out with absolute derision.
Beatrice swallowed, thinking she heard a collective gasp. She’d half-convinced herself the viscount had known all along. Apparently she had been mistaken, for he was genuinely irate. Moreover, by the smug look upon the face of Lady Emily’s cousin, standing watching with amusement and crossed arms, he had been the arbiter of the news leading to her denouncement.
“A shopgirl as a guest at Marlborough House,” Lord Melton continued in a rage. “Can anyone else imagine such impudence?”
What could she say? She certainly couldn’t defend herself, for everything he said was blatantly true. Lady Emily, to her credit, was not enjoying the scene at all. She looked as shocked as Beatrice felt, her face white and pinched.
“You are out of line,” Greer said, stepping forward to place his leather-clad self between her silly pastoral persona and the outraged viscount.
Beatrice had forgotten he was there as all eyes were upon her. Ladies dressed as the subjects of famous paintings stared and gestured with their fans, and men as court jesters and long-dead soldiers scowled. Someone dressed as Zenobia turned and gave her the cut direct, a bold Cleopatra sneered at her, and a cavalier stared as if she were a farm animal someone had let inside to run amuck at the ball.
If only the floor tiles would open up and let her slide beneath them!
“You are behaving badly, sir,” the American said heatedly. “This is neither the time nor the place for your vicious accusations.”
Lady Emily, with her glance slicing between Beatrice and Greer, took a step toward him, perhaps wondering if he also was not who he claimed to be.
“She is not a toffee heiress,” Lord Melton proclaimed, causing a murmur to go up around them. Some people were plainly confused. A few snickered.
Beatrice knew she ought to be as ashamed as she had been mortified a moment earlier. Yet, the viscount’s ridiculous statement made her shake her head while holding back a laugh. That Charlotte had managed to make anyone believe such a thing, even for a second, was a wondrous achievement.
“Not as such, no, I am not,” she told him, feeling crabby. “But then, who is?”
A few more people laughed. “A toffee heiress!” someone exclaimed.
Lord Melton’s face reddened. “You work at Rare Confectionery. That’s why you were on New Bond Street.”
“I never claimed otherwise,” Beatrice told him.
“You said you were shopping that day I rescued the hat,” he persisted.
“Rescued the hat?” someone repeated, and loud guffaws ensued.
“You made an assumption,” she began, then stopped. They were bickering like children, and it was pointless. She sighed. “Regardless, I am sorry you felt deceived.”
“You mean you are sorry you were caught,” he said with vehemence that surprised her. “I want you thrown out of here at once.” The viscount looked at his friend St. George and then at Greer, as if one of them would help toss her out.
Lady Emily appeared shocked at his words. Beatrice accepted she might find herself momentarily standing in the foggy night air of Pall Mall, walking back to Amity’s house. However, Greer was not so easygoing.
“This is absurd. Miss Rare-Foure—”
“Of Rare Confectionery, a sweet shop,” the viscount hissed, reminding everyone of her middle-class origins.
“Yes, and she is the most magnificent toffee-maker you can imagine,” Greer said, which Beatrice didn’t think really helped the situation, but he was not to be stopped now that he was in high dudgeon. “As I was saying, Miss Rare-Foure has every right to be here—”
“Who says she hasn’t?” asked the Duke of Pelham, unexpectedly in their midst, with Amity and Charlotte. He took in everything, pausing and raising a single eyebrow as his glance landed on Greer’s costume. Then he demanded, “What’s going on here?”
The viscount, as well as Lord St. George, Lady Emily, and everyone else in the vicinity gave a low bow or curtsey. It wasn’t every day someone was in close company with a duke and duchess.
“This woman is impersonating an heiress,” Lord Melton said after he’d straightened.
Lord St. George grabbed his friend’s elbow to stop him saying more. Beatrice wondered at the viscount’s ignorance of the marital connection between herself and the duke. However, as Greer had said once, hardly anyone knew of the Duchess of Pelham’s origins. Nor did they care, not once she had become one of them.
“You are plainly an ass impersonating a man,” Greer said, taking a step toward the viscount, but her brother-in-law put a hand up. The duke was made even more impressive by being clad in his King Louis XVI costume. Instantly, silence fell around them.
“No one gives a fig for your righteous indignation, Melton,” His Grace said. “Everyone knows your estate has fallen on hard times and you are barely keeping your head above water. My sister-in-law is here as my guest, and she certainly doesn’t need to deal with the likes of you, a sordid fortune hunter!”
Lord Melton’s face was scarlet, but he didn’t gainsay a word the duke had uttered, so Beatrice assumed he had been paying her suit while thinking her wealthy. With a great show of turning on his heel, his Persian silks swirling, the viscount walked away with St. George trailing along. The rest of the onlookers dispersed shortly after to watch the real entertainment, the quadrilles.
“To think,” Beatrice said with mock indignation, “he was after me for my money!”
Charlotte and Amity began to laugh, but Greer still looked offended. “What a buffoon, causing a scene. If only I had a tomahawk on me.”
Beatrice was simply glad no longer to be the focus of any attention. “I guess I will spend the rest of the Season as the Duke of Pelham’s penniless sister-in-law rather than as a toffee heiress.”
“A treacle toffee heiress,” Charlotte murmured.
Beatrice glanced at Greer, expecting him to laugh, but he was distracted. Lady Emily hadn’t walked away with the viscount and her cousin. Instead, she remained standing uncertainly, staring at the American.
If the ugly scene that had just transpired didn’t scare off the lady, and if she still fancied Greer despite him standing up for a false toffee heiress, then she must truly care for him. Beatrice felt more disturbed by that fact than anything else which had happened.
“Did you get to see any of the cards’ quadrille?” Charlotte asked.
“What does that mean?” Beatrice asked, preoccupied as Greer approached Lady Emily, put his head close to hers to say something, and then placed her hand on his arm. As the claws of jealousy encircled Beatrice’s heart, Greer walked away with Lady Emily now the one next to his half-bare, muscular chest.
Drat! She keenly felt the loss of him already. She loved the way he’d stood up for her, loved the way he made her happy and made her laugh. Plainly, she loved him.
The realization had crept upon her over the course of days and weeks, and now it hit her with such force, she wanted to sit before she fell.
“Henry!” Amity exclaimed as Beatrice closed her eyes and started to sway. She felt lightheaded, probably from lack of nourishment during the day, and the way Delia had laced her corset too tightly.
The duke grabbed her arm to support her, and Beatrice was glad Greer was too far away to notice her weakness.
“You don’t want to go home, do you?” Charlotte asked, plainly dreading such a circumstance when the evening had barely begun.
Taking a fortifying breath, Beatrice shook her head. “Of course not. I missed dancing cards. I don’t intend to miss another moment.”
Relieved, Charlotte nearly whistled, and Beatrice saw the instant she caught herself. Then her sister explained, “The dining room doors opened and the royal procession of dancers appeared. A polonaise was played, did you hear it?”
“Yes,” Beatrice said. “I saw the Venetians dance.”
“There was a grand marshal,” Charlotte continued as if Beatrice hadn’t spoken, “a man with a white wand dressed like an Elizabethan chamberlain.”
“That was Lord Colville,” the duke said, still holding onto Beatrice.
“And he was followed by six guardsmen in laced coats with powdered wigs like Amity and His Grace. They were followed by the young princes, and then —”
Amity interrupted Charlotte, “And there was another group in Van Dyke costumes, so clever.”
“Oh, yes, the Duchess of Sutherland was in a Henrietta Maria dress of white satin. Most becoming,” Charlotte continued.
“What does any of this have to do with cards?” Beatrice asked the duke, since her sisters were overcome with describing the costumes.
“Another quadrille set,” he told her. “More royals. Princess Christian dressed as the Queen of Clubs and the Duke of Athole as the King of Spades and whatnot.”
“Why weren’t you with the other dukes?” she asked, feeling better the more distance she had between her and Greer and the disturbing sight of him walking away with Lady Emily.
“I’m not one of the royal dukes,” he said, with a shrug, clearly not bothered. “Merely a regular duke.”
That made her laugh, as if being a duke of any kind could be regular.
“Come along,” Charlotte urged them, “the fairy tales are going to dance next, Cinderella, Puss in Boots, and Little Boy Blue. And the Prince of Wales is the fairy prince in a ruby tunic with grey satin tights and a leopard’s head! I want Beatrice to see them.”
Letting her younger sister grab hold of her, Beatrice released the duke’s arm, and they all moved forward to watch the next royal quadrille.
***
AT HALF PAST TWELVE, their Royal Highnesses led their guests through the ballroom, down a few steps, and into the gardens. Two supper tents, finely decorated, had been set up, a smaller one with a buffet hung with scarlet velvet Indian carpets and scarlet geraniums everywhere, both hanging from the roof and set upon the tables, and a longer tent with tables stretching out for three hundred people to sit and eat.
Naturally, the royals and their guests would sit and be served. And just as naturally, the Duke of Pelham and his family went with them.
Beatrice kept an eye out for Greer, but if he was not with them upon entering, he would undoubtedly end up at the buffet in the other tent. With Lady Emily.
Charlotte had lost none of her excitement as the evening progressed and they took seats among life-sized, decorative armored figures and rich tapestries, making it seem like a medieval feast.
However, her sister quietened after they sat. “Are you terribly disappointed?”
Beatrice froze as she’d been thinking of Greer. “What do you mean? I knew all along Mr. Carson...,” then she trailed off at her sister’s expression.
“I meant with Lord Melton’s odious behavior. You have danced quite a bit with him over the past few weeks, and Delia told me he came to the house.”
Beatrice was pleased to be able to put her sister’s mind at ease. “I could not possibly be less affected by the behavior of the Viscount Melton. Do not worry for me, dear sister. He is of no consequence whatsoever.”
“That’s good. The duke said he never did invite him to St. James’s Place. Lord Melton wasn’t at our first ball. He lied.”
Beatrice nodded and sipped her wine. More deception, but who was she to raise an eyebrow at a blatant lie?
Nonetheless, she decided this would be her last event. She could no longer pretend an interest in any of the men she’d met. It was impossible while her bolder-than-life American strode around the ballrooms and dining rooms of London, vastly more appealing to her than anyone else.
Moreover, she loved him, and he was going to marry Lady Emily.
Despite her decision to end her foray into high society, the evening was not yet over. After they ate, they danced until daylight in three rooms facing the garden — the ballroom where the quadrilles had been, and the library and the dining room on either side of it. Beatrice couldn’t imagine a grander event. It was a perfect time to retreat, as all the rest of the Season would pale in comparison and seem practically shabby. Hopefully, Amity would go with Charlotte in her place.
And then, when Beatrice had danced with so many strangers, made stranger still by their costumes, and when she couldn’t imagine taking another step, Greer appeared before her.
“I’ve been looking for you for ages, Dresden china,” he said. “Dinner was grand, wasn’t it?”
She wanted to say she would have enjoyed it more with him seated beside her, but she didn’t. “It was. I think definitely the best we’ve had all Season, but don’t tell Amity I said so.”
He smiled. “Will you dance with me? I was worried I wouldn’t find you before you left, and that would be a shame. I have grabbed hold of the arm of two other Dresden chinas and been sorely disappointed. Not only that, they seemed ready to scream for help at my familiar manner.”
She chuckled. “I am sure the papers will discuss the opening quadrilles, the tent suppers, and the dangerous Indian chief accosting pastoral young ladies.”
The musicians played the first few notes of a waltz, then stopped to let everyone find a partner and, more importantly, to find room on the dance floor.
“Come along, my toffee heiress, let us dance.”
A thrill went through her at his possessive words until she recalled he’d spent hours dancing with Lady Emily. Swallowing her ridiculous jealousy, Beatrice put her hand on his shoulder, felt his arm around her, his warm fingers resting on her back. Their other hands were perfectly aligned, grasping hold, and then the music began.
A few minutes earlier, she’d been near exhaustion. Now, Beatrice didn’t want the waltz to end.