Miss Fiona's Fancy (The Royal Ambition Series Book 3) Read online

  “I’ll bet as well,” squeaked Miss Helmsdale, quite white with excitement. “And I thought this Season was going to be dreadfully dull!”

  They called for the maids to hurry off and find them a blank notebook so that they could enter their bets. The bet was dully logged as “Miss Fiona’s Fancy.” They were all laughing and teasing Fiona about her prospects when Fiona suddenly noticed Lizzie, standing behind the group, listening avidly.

  “How long have you been standing there?” demanded Fiona.

  “Only a moment,” said Lizzie. “Her grace is furious at being kept waiting.”

  Fiona said good-bye to the others, Lady Yarwood gave the betting book to her own maid for safekeeping, and following Lizzie’s drooping white muslin shoulders, Fiona joined the duchess in the hall.

  “Good heavens, child!” cried the Duchess of Gordonstoun, appalled. “You cannot appear wearing red! Whatever possessed you, you wicked girl?”

  “It was all dear little Lizzie’s idea,” said Fiona, indulging in what she considered a well-deserved burst of malice.

  Lizzie burst into tears. She never did… she wouldn’t… how could Fiona be so cruel… was it because she, poor Lizzie, was only a love child?

  “It is no use trying to blame Lizzie,” said the duchess. “You horrible unfeeling girl. As it is, I would have to take you home had not Lizzie had that brilliant idea of the headdress which makes the rest bearable.”

  “I am not a liar,” flamed Fiona. She rounded on Lizzie. “I’ll deal with you later, you sneaky little worm.”

  “Apologize to Lizzie this moment,” said the duchess, “or I shall take you home.” Fiona closed her lips in a mutinous line. She was just about to say she would never apologize to Lizzie when she remembered that bet. Everything hung on it. If she could only become engaged to the Marquess of Cleveden, then she could pay her father’s debts, break her engagement, and persuade her grateful parents to take her back to Scotland.

  “Perhaps I was a little harsh,” said Fiona sweetly. “You see, your grace, if you question Christine Grant, you will find she made this headdress from some silk flowers of mama’s. I was angry because Lizzie appeared to be taking praise for something Christine did. And this headdress was none of your doing, now, was it, Lizzie?”

  Lizzie remained silent. “We have only to ask Christine,” said Fiona softly.

  The Duchess of Gordonstoun looked impatiently at Lizzie. “Well?” she demanded.

  “The headdress was not my idea,” whispered Lizzie in a broken little voice. “But I try so hard to please Fiona and nothing seems to work. I craved only a little praise. It was wrong of me. Forgive me.”

  Fiona waited to see how Lizzie enjoyed being on the receiving end of a tongue-lashing for a change, but to her amazement, the duchess said gruffly, “Now, child, there is no need to cry. Your situation is indeed a painful one and Fiona is not the easiest of girls to school. Come along. We have wasted enough time.”

  Perhaps I am being unfair, thought Fiona, as she mounted the staircase beside Lizzie. She looks almost brokenhearted and yet I could swear it was all an act.

  She curtsied to Lady Bellamy and followed the duchess into the ballroom, blinking in the glare of light from hundreds of candles. Fiona tried not to stare. She had never been in anyone’s home before where they could afford such an amount of light. When she had imagined the ballroom, she had envisaged it as having shadowy corners where she could go and hide should she prove to be a wallflower. But if she failed to “take,” then she would be sitting there for all to see.

  A quadrille was in progress. Lizzie and Fiona sat down on either side of the duchess. Fiona waited nervously. What if no one asked her to dance?

  She looked toward the entrance where two men were just arriving and her heart sank. For one of them was the tall, handsome man with the yellow eyes, and superstitious Fiona felt her evening was doomed.

  The dance finished. Lord Bellamy, a small, tubby man, came up to the duchess leading a gangling, blushing young man behind him. He presented the young man as Captain Rogers, who, he said, was just itching to dance. The captain stood with his shoulders drooping, looking down at his dancing pumps, and obviously wished the floor would open and swallow him.

  Fiona and Lizzie were introduced. The captain raised his eyes and looked hopefully at Lizzie, for he was terrified in case he would have to lead the dazzler in the flaming dress onto the floor. But Lord Bellamy specialized in choosing partners for the shy young men at his balls, and so the captain was ordered to take Miss Fiona Grant onto the floor.

  Now, the small orchestra was that famous one from Almack’s Assembly Rooms, Neil Gow and his fiddlers from Edinburgh. The next dance was announced as a Sean Trews. Fiona smiled with delight. It was one of her favorites and she was surprised it was to be performed at this stately ball. The Sean Trews was a dance, created after Culloden, when the Highlanders were forbidden to wear the kilt, and the dance, rather like a Highland fling, was supposed to show the Highlander trying to kick off the offending English trews or trousers. Fiona did not realize that although Scottish reels were danced everywhere in London, the steps were a sedate watered-down version that turned them more into English country dances than high-springing wild Scottish ones. Neil Gow and his men played with great verve and style. Fiona forgot about her blushing partner after the first chord and danced as if she were back in the smoky hall at Strathglass. Highland dancing, well done, is more like ballet than anything else. One by one the other dancers stopped and drew to the side and watched Fiona. Poor Captain Rogers rallied amazingly. He had just been as terrified before his first battle, he remembered. He had banished the fear then by simply blocking out all thought and performing his duty. His duty now was to dance opposite Fiona Grant. He set to with a will, doing his best to emulate the graceful leaps of his partner.

  The Marquess of Cleveden stood very still, head and shoulders above most of the crowd, watching Fiona Grant. Something wild and fresh and new had invaded London society, he thought, although he could not help thinking at the same time that young Captain Rogers deserved a medal for gallantry.

  Fiona sank gracefully into a curtsy at the final chord. Then she returned to the present world and stood blushing and confused as London society roared its approval. But Lady Yarwood, when she had finished cheering, whispered behind her fan to Letitia Helmsdale, “I think we have all just earned three thousand pounds. Fiona was magnificent, but no gentleman will dare dance with her now. What man wants to make a cake of himself?”

  This was repeated in harsher terms by the infuriated duchess when Fiona returned to her seat. And so it proved to be. Even the ungrateful captain, flushed with success, promptly signed his name twice in Lizzie’s program and showed no sign of wanting to dance with Fiona again.

  “What will I tell your parents?” moaned the duchess, and Fiona thought wretchedly, What shall I tell them myself when the Season is over and I have to find nine thousand pounds? She glanced around under her lashes, searching the faces of the elderly gentlemen present and wondering if the Marquess of Cleveden was among them. It was all the fault of that man with the yellow eyes, thought Fiona. He had only to appear for social disgrace to follow automatically.

  The Marquess of Cleveden turned to his friend, Mr. Harry Gore and said, “I am amazed that Highland beauty is left to sit alone with only that horrible little Scotch duchess as company.”

  Mr. Gore, small, thin, and gossipy, shrugged expressive shoulders. “No one will dare stand up with her. Be rather like walking into the middle of the stage at the Italian opera stark naked.”

  “But she is so very beautiful and danced like an angel.”

  Mr. Gore shook his head of sparse curls. “No money. Beautiful, yes. But too wild and odd.”

  “The next dance is a waltz,” said the marquess thoughtfully. “Miss Grant surely cannot perform the Highland fling during that.”

  “Cause a fuss if you do ask her,” said Mr. Gore. “Everyone knows you don’t dance with
debutantes. Besides, you’ll need to get permission. She ain’t been to Almack’s yet. That means Bellamy’s got to give you permission to lead her out.”

  “Oh, that’s easily done.”

  “Everyone will talk.”

  “My dear Harry, they always do. I have not been so entertained this age and it is a crime to see such a beauty left languishing alone.”

  “If you ask her to waltz, and she don’t kick her heels up, you’ll bring her into fashion. All the fellows try to emulate you.”

  “Precisely. Watch me fashionize Miss Grant!”

  FOUR

  Fiona sat and watched Lizzie dancing a Scottish reel in the best English manner. Lizzie did not have much animation but her shy ways appeared to appeal to her partners. Her light brown hair was elaborately curled and pomaded and her plump little figure looked neat and attractive in the expensive and deceptively simple muslin gown.

  Well, here’s an odd thing, thought Fiona. Lizzie, the accidental daughter, was supposed to be my chaperon and yet the duchess is treating her as the debutante. Amazing Lizzie! She has enormous power when it comes to worming her way into people’s affections. But not mine! Am I jealous? Yes, of course I am. But there is much more to make me dislike her. There! She has just thrown me a pitying little smile. Even the duchess has deserted me. She sits over there talking to her friends and looking occasionally to make sure Lizzie is well and happy. And I bet that £9,000 pounds!

  “Oh, dear,” said Fiona out loud.

  “What ails you?” demanded a voice above her head.

  Fiona looked up. Lady Bellamy was standing in front of her. Behind her, looking amused, stood the man with the yellow eyes.

  Fiona threw him such a scared look that the marquess was startled. He did not know that to Fiona’s Highland eyes he had become a harbinger of social ruin.

  “Miss Grant,” Lady Bellamy went on coldly when Fiona did not answer her question, “may I present the Marquess of Cleveden who is desirous to dance the waltz with you? I have given my permission.”

  Damned! thought Fiona wildly. Damned, and double damned. Here was no faded gentleman past his prime who would be flattered by the attention of a young miss, but a powerful, rich, and handsome man who looked as if he could have married any woman he chose and, if the gossips were right, chose not to.

  “Miss Grant!” said Lady Bellamy sharply.

  Fiona pulled herself together with an effort and rose to her feet. She curtsied first to Lady Bellamy and then to the marquess. “I am honored by your invitation, my lord,” she said in a hollow voice.

  Lady Bellamy gave a curt little nod and walked away.

  The marquess held out his hand. Avoiding his curious gaze with all the shiftiness of Lizzie, Fiona allowed herself to be led to the floor.

  She had only waltzed before with her dancing master and hoped her steps were sedate enough for this English ballroom.

  When he placed his hand firmly on her waist, she experienced such a turmoil of sensation that she turned quite white.

  “This will not answer, Miss Grant,” said the marquess. “You look about to faint. Are you ill?”

  “No, my lord,” said Fiona. “I am too tight-laced.” Then she colored up to the roots of her hair. What an unmaidenly excuse!

  The slender waist under the marquess’s hand felt soft and pliant. A flash of humor lit those odd eyes of his.

  “Do you wish to retire and… er… unlace?”

  “No, my lord,” said Fiona. “I shall do very well now.”

  He was handsome, he was rich, but he was unmarried, and the Season stretched ahead. If only she could get him to propose, and that she would not do if she were going to turn faint at the sight of him.

  She smiled up at him, a tender bewitching smile. He smiled back and swung her onto the floor among the other dancers.

  There was no doubt in the minds of watching society after those first few steps that Miss Fiona Grant could waltz like an angel. There was no doubt either that Lord Cleveden was looking interested and amused.

  “She has got him! She has got him!” said Letitia Helmsdale to Euphemia Perkins.

  “With her looks and grace, she could get anyone,” said Euphemia Perkins dismally.

  “But not Cleveden,” said Lady Yarwood, who had come up in time to overhear this pessimistic exchange. “Cleveden may dance with her, but he will not marry her—or anyone else. My mama says that beauty after beauty has been thrown at his head almost since he was out of short coats. Besides, why so sad? Three thousand pounds is a mere trifle as far as we are concerned.”

  “I will have to explain to Mama how it comes about I need such a sum,” said Euphemia.

  “And I,” echoed Letitia.

  “Oh, I regret to say I have been in this pickle before,” said Lady Yarwood. “We are expected to carry card money with us, you know that. Many debutantes including myself have been caught by those hostesses who pretend they are giving card parties but are, in fact, running genteel hells. All you do is accuse Fiona Grant of being one of them and you will find your parents will pay without a murmur. One never pays one’s dressmaker or jeweler until the poor things scream, but gambling debts must always be paid. Besides, although the Grants have not been long in Town, Sir Edward Grant already has the reputation of being a hardened gambler.”

  “I do not want to lose,” said Euphemia Perkins, “and yet, on the other hand, Fiona is such an affectionate, carefree sort of girl, I find myself wanting her to win.”

  “Fiona is very well,” agreed Lady Yarwood. “But Cleveden! Not a hope there, I can assure you.”

  The three fell to discussing their beaux. Lady Yarwood, the other two felt, should not be discussing other gentlemen since she was engaged to her colonel and shortly to marry him, but she did seem to have a wandering eye.

  Although Fiona danced prettily, the marquess found it difficult to talk to her. Despite a feeling he was wasting his time and would soon find this enchanting-looking Highland girl was as boring as any other debutante, he suggested when the waltz finished that they should find a quiet corner and continue their conversation.

  “Indeed, my lord,” said Fiona with a flash of humor, “I was not aware we had even begun.”

  “Not at all my fault, Miss Grant,” he pointed out amiably. “I made so many attempts and asked so many questions only to get yes or no by way of reply.”

  “After having disgraced myself by leaping about during the Sean Trews,” said Fiona, “I was watching my steps too carefully to pay much attention to you.”

  “And, of course,” teased the marquess, “there is the discomfort of tight lacing.”

  “I should not have said that,” said Fiona. “It was not true, and in any case it was a most unladylike thing to say.”

  He piloted her deftly toward a sofa in a corner, half hidden from the ballroom by a potted palm.

  “And so what was the reason?” he asked, waiting until she was seated and then sitting down next to her.

  “I had decided you were unlucky. I saw you at the Hanover Square Concert,” said Fiona, “and immediately after that was in social disgrace. I saw you enter the ballroom, and then disgraced myself again.”

  “You speak like a gambler. The gambler always sees signs and omens.”

  “Perhaps,” laughed Fiona. “Are you sure I should be sitting here alone with you like this, my lord? I do not wish to endure another jaw-me-dead from the Duchess of Gordonstoun.”

  “Perfectly conventional,” he said, quirking an eyebrow at her. “I am quite a catch.”

  “But not yet caught,” said Fiona, amazed at her own boldness.

  “No, not yet. Perhaps not ever. Tell me, I hear your parents are in Town, so why are you chaperoned by the duchess? I trust your mother is not ill.”

  “No, my parents were persuaded by the duchess that she herself was better suited to puffing me off.”

  “And yet she appears to devote her energies to your companion. A relative?”

  “Yes, my lord.
Lizzie Grant is a cousin.”

  “And this cousin, I hear, was, shortly before, a seamstress. Lady Bellamy, frightened that one of the lower orders should be soiling her ballroom floor with plebeian feet, quizzed the duchess as to the reason for Miss Lizzie Grant’s presence. The duchess said Miss Grant was of good family and had merely been put to the needle to make her a better wife and housekeeper for some lucky man. A new idea! You do things very differently in Scotland.”

  “So it seems,” said Fiona crossly. “I was under the impression that Lizzie was to be my companion. I was urged to copy her manner.”

  The marquess leveled his quizzing glass in the direction of Lizzie, who was, at that moment, whispering in the duchess’s ear.

  “Do not, I beg of you,” he said finally, “copy her manner. It would not sit well with you.”