Quadrille (The Love and Temptation Series Book 5) Page 7
But a few minutes ago Mary would have thrown herself into his arms had he volunteered to escort her. But now, Biggs’s sympathy had made her resent what she now considered to be a piece of autocratic condescension.
“I don’t want to go now,” she remarked, wondering in amazement if her voice sounded as childish and sulky to her lord as it did to herself. Evidently it did.
“Sulk, then,” said Lord Hubert carelessly. And the next second he was gone.
“Now you’ve been and gone and done it,” said Biggs with gloomy relish. “It would have been silly of me to go with you my lady. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Oh, please Biggs… do try,” cried Lady Mary, while somewhere in the back of her brain, the old self-controlled, madonna-like Mary looked on in amazement at the vacillating child she had become.
Lord Hubert Challenge had dreamt of this sort of evening for a long time. Now he was beginning to wonder why he wasn’t enjoying it one bit.
He was ensconced in his club with a few of his favorite military friends. The play was deep, the wine was good, and a huge log fire crackled in the club fireplace, dispersing the unseasonable chill of the evening. For the drizzle had changed to a downpour, slashing against the windows, driven by a wild gale. He was both comfortable and fashionably dressed in a double-breasted tail coat with a deep M-shaped collar, short-waisted waistcoat and close fitting knee-breeches. He had run into the Duke of Pellicombe earlier in the day and the Duke had been almost alarmingly effusive in his apologies. He would deem it a tremendous honor if Challenge would but grace his wife’s little ball. Hubert had said firmly that he had a previous commitment but had, nonetheless, accepted the card which the Duke had pressed upon him.
He shifted slightly in his chair and he could feel the stiff edges of the card in his pocket pressing against his hip. Well, he had offered to escort her, hadn’t he? And she had refused, hadn’t she? And furthermore, she was a silly chit and he didn’t care a rap for her… did he? But she was his wife and dammit, he had to admit he had not liked to see her cry.
He abruptly stood up and walked to the window and stared out into the street where a lamplighter battled with the gale, nipping up and down the posts like a monkey, filling the lamps from his oil can. The cowls on the chimney tops spun round and round, sending streams of black smoke down into the rain-drenched street below.
All at once he remembered the rain-soaked fields of Waterloo. He turned and looked at his group of friends round the card table. How few of them had survived! All at once the screams of the wind were the screams of the wounded and dying. Damn it all! He was blue-devilled. He would go to the ball after all.
When he arrived at his house to deliver the news to his wife, it was to discover with some anger that she had left. Asked who was escorting her, his footman became shifty-looking and muttered that it was by some Spanish lady.
“Probably some mushroom friend that the Witherspoons picked up in Brussels,” he thought haughtily.
He changed quickly into his ball dress, allowed his thick black hair to be teased into the artistic disorder of a style called coup de vent, tucked his chapeau bras under his arm and set out.
* * *
Some streets away, Lucy Godwin strode up and down the room waiting for her husband to get ready. “I declare I do not know what is taking you this age,” she stormed. “I had as well gone with young Haverstock. He dances so exquisitely. Do you remember…?”
“Young Haverstock died with a ball in his heart,” said Major Godwin as he struggled with the intricacies of his cravat.
Lucy bit her lip in vexation. “Now you have upset me by talking of death.”
“I am sorry, my dear,” replied the Major quietly. “It seems as if death is my trade. I shall never forget that battle, or the useless waste. So very many dead.”
“Ooooh!” cried Lucy, bursting into ready tears. “Are we to have no fun? You make me feel guilty. You prose so.”
The Major turned slowly. Large tears were rolling down Lucy’s heart-shaped face.
“There now,” he said in a softer voice. “You are spoiling your looks, my sweetheart. Come, I am an old bear to depress you so. I shall be the happiest man at the ball tonight if only you will smile on me.”
Lucy gave him a petulant, watery smile. And with that he had to be content, although his heart was very sore. He was still troubled by feverish nightmares of death and disaster. But he was a mean and selfish brute to expect this fairy-like creature to share his grim agonies. Wasn’t he…?
Mary Challenge found that she was able to forget her husband for at least two whole minutes at a time. She was the succès fou of the evening. She had entered the ballroom very nervously escorted by Biggs, expecting any minute that someone would cry, “Imposter!” But it had all gone as smoothly as a dream. Biggs, a splendid Marchese in purple velvet, lavishly trimmed with crystals from the dining room chandelier, and with his brushlike hair covered by an enormous turban, had sailed off sedately to sit with the chaperones. Mary was quickly taken in charge by none other than the famous Mr. Brummell himself. She was at first over-awed, but he seemed to find everything she said so excruciatingly funny that she began to relax after her first surprise, and when he at last asked her how she was enjoying her first season, she found the courage to reply calmly, “Absolutely terrifying, Mr. Brummell,” which sent the famous Beau off into whoops.
Her success was assured. Everyone was anxious to find what it was about Lady Mary which had kept London’s leader of fashion so amused.
Without his patronage, most might have found her a pretty enough girl with her large clear eyes and saucy fair curls tied up in a gold filet to match her gold-spangled gown. But because of the Beau’s obvious interest, she was at once declared to be “quite beautiful” and her dance card was quickly filled.
Mary was determined to enjoy her success, and the only thing she found lacking was that her infuriating husband was not present to see it. Even the arrival of Lady Clarissa, who was dressed in silver gauze, damped so that it molded her body, could not dim Mary’s enjoyment.
She was, however, slightly disturbed to notice that minx Lucy Godwin flirting with all and sundry, while her large husband propped up one of the pillars and watched. It really was too bad of the girl, thought Mary, smiling sympathetically across at him.
The next dance was a waltz and as Mary had not yet received permission to dance it, she decided to stroll over and join her friend, the “Marquise.” But before she could reach Biggs, she was accosted by Major Godwin.
“I say, Lady Challenge,” he began. “I must speak to you. Just a little of your time.”
Mary nodded and took his arm and they walked to the adjoining saloon where refreshments were being served. The Major found them a table in a corner, away from the other guests. He sat down heavily and looked at Mary like a large, sad dog who has just received a whipping from its master.
“I don’t know how to begin,” he blurted out at last.
“It’s Lucy, isn’t it?” asked Mary gently. “She is very young, you know.”
“But dash it all, we’re married,” groaned the Major. “I try to tell her not to flirt with the other fellows and she glares at me and calls me an old stick-in-the-mud. I tell you Lady Challenge, it’s no go. You’re a fine girl but you cannot understand what it means to love someone desperately and not be loved in return.”
Mary’s beautiful eyes filled with tears as she felt a sympathetic knot of pain in her stomach. “Oh, yes I know,” she said sadly.
The Major fingered his sideburns and looked at her awkwardly. “I say, I didn’t know. You mean…?”
Mary nodded. The burden of her unrequited love for her husband was suddenly too much for her to bear alone. For in that second she realized bitterly that she loved him with all her heart.
“Perhaps,” she volunteered slowly, “your situation is not as bad as mine. You see, Hubert married me for my money. He never pretended anything else. But Lucy must have loved
you.”
“She did at first,” said the Major, covering Mary’s hand with his own large one. “Those were marvellous days. Then we came to London. After that she had no time for me. She… she said I had stolen her youth.”
Mary pressed his hand in return and forbore from remarking that Lucy Godwin had obviously read too many novels.
“La! How comfortable you look together. ’Tis said you are the latest fashion, Mary. So you are become like the rest of us. Setting up a flirt!”
Lady Clarissa stood looking down at their joined hands, her cat’s eyes alight with lazy malice. Mary snatched her hand from the Major’s, but not before her startled eyes had caught sight of the tall figure of her husband blocking the doorway.
“I doubt if I shall ever become so fashionable,” said Mary quietly. “Major Godwin is a friend. You must not mistake friendship and loyalty for anything else, Lady Clarissa. Love is a different matter.”
“In what way,” drawled her husband, strolling up to their table. He had only just caught Mary’s last remarks.
Clarissa swung round so that the drying gauze of her dress floated out from her body, showing tantalizing glimpses of the white flesh beneath. “Hubert darling,” she exclaimed, clinging to his arm. “Your little wife was just expounding upon the virtues of love. She and Major Godwin make quite a fuss about it.”
“Indeed!” said Hubert casually. “You must tell me all about it, Mary. We shall dance, I think.”
Mary rose to her feet, all poise gone. The sophisticated Clarissa and her tall, handsome husband seemed to belong together. Their eyes, as they surveyed her, held the same look of mocking mischief.
“I have no dances I-left,” stammered Mary. “Only the waltzes and I have not yet received permission to dance those.”
“Then I shall find permission,” he said smoothly. “Ah, I believe your next partner approaches.” He bowed and walked off with Clarissa on his arm, bowing and nodding to various acquaintances. He had not noticed her success! The evening fell in glittering ruins at her feet.
Her partner was young Lord Fitzwilliam, a dashing exquisite who usually only favored beauties of the first stare with his attentions. He danced smoothly and expertly, chatting amiably when the movement of the dance brought them together. He gradually grew a little piqued. The Season’s newly risen star seemed unaware of his condescension, replying only in monosyllables to all his wittiest sallies. When the dance came to an end, and he was allowed that very English privilege of walking about the floor with her until the beginning of the next dance, he asked her flatly, “I fear you are not enjoying the evening or my company either, Lady Challenge.”
Her gray eyes flew up to his face in startled wonder and dismay. “I am so sorry,” said Mary contritely. “I am tired and my feet hurt. I would normally be extremely flattered that you should single me out for such distinguished notice, my lord, but I fear I would rather be home in bed.”
Lord Fitzwilliam laughed appreciatively, long and loudly, drawing interested stares from all corners. “By Jove,” he gasped at last. “Brummell was right. You are an original. I declare, honesty shall be the latest fashion.”
And Mary, who knew she had said nothing witty, extraordinary, or funny was left to stare after him in a bewildered way as she was led off by her next partner. Lord Fitzwilliam hastened to tell a highly embellished story of Mary’s honesty.
His group of exquisites were delighted. Honesty became the new thing. People began to complain of their corns, their disordered livers and their tight corsets. One young fashionable aspirant became so carried away by this new vogue that he told the bewildered Duchess of Pellicombe that her ball was “curst flat” and got ordered home by the duke.
After the next dance, Mary glanced at her card and saw with relief that it was to be another waltz. She could rest and find out how the stalwart Biggs was faring with the dowagers. She was relieved to see that, since her husband’s arrival, Biggs had opened an enormous ostrich fan in front of his face and kept it there.
“My dance I think,” came a well known voice. Her husband stood looking down at her. Beside him was the slightly flustered Duchess of Pellicombe who was still wondering what had gone wrong with her ball that people should keep complaining so. “The Duchess has given us permission to waltz,” added Hubert gently. “By the way, I trust you did not come unescorted.”
“Indeed no,” said the Duchess before Mary could reply. “A most exceptionable lady. Very grande dame. The Marquise Elvira Dobones deLorca y Viedda y Crummers, no less.”
“The what?” Hubert’s eyes raked the line of chaperones. “You must present me, Mary. Where did you find this lady?”
“I m-met her in Brussels after you had g-gone,” lied Mary wildly. “B-but I want to waltz, Hubert. I shall introduce you afterwards.”
As they moved about the room, Mary tried to stand on tiptoe so that she could signal over Hubert’s shoulder to warn Biggs. But Biggs had disappeared.
Then Mary suddenly saw Biggs. He was dancing with the elderly Colonel Fairfax and, as the ill-assorted couple drifted past, Mary heard Biggs say in a high falsetto voice, “Oh, ain’t you the one, Colonel. You must be a fair old rip!”
Mary closed her eyes and Hubert looked down at her curiously. “Feeling faint?” he asked.
“Y-yes,” gasped Mary. “Take me home, Hubert.”
“So I shall. Directly after you have introduced me to your Marquise.”
“She’s… she’s gone,” squeaked Mary.
The dance came to a stop.
“I say, Challenge,” roared Colonel Fairfax. “Want you to meet this splendid lady. Fine woman, damme. The Marquise de something or other Crummers. Sorry, ma’am. Never could get my tongue round those names.”
“Call me Elvira,” simpered Biggs awfully.
Hubert made a low bow. “You bear a startling resemblance to an old friend of mine, Marchese,” he said, staring into those boot-button eyes.
Biggs rapped his lordship painfully across the knuckles with the sticks of his large fan. “I declare you’re flirting with me, my lord,” he leered.
Hubert’s face went rigid with distaste. “Your imagination does you credit, madam,” he said. “Come Mary.”
But Mary had to be surrendered to her next partner and went off with many an anguished look towards Biggs. But Biggs’s familiarity with Hubert had done its work. Lord Challenge had privately damned the Marquise as a pushing vulgarian—worse than Mrs. Witherspoon—and did not look at her again.
He propped his broad shoulders against a paneled wall and waited for the dance to end. Then he would take Mary home. She did indeed look white and strained.
He felt a gentle tug at his sleeve and found himself looking down into the lovely face of Clarissa. “I must talk with you, Hubert,” she said urgently.
“Is it very important?” said Hubert, his eyes never leaving his wife’s slim figure.
“Very,” she whispered. “Please Hubert. Where we can be private.”
“Oh very well,” he said reluctantly.
He led her out of the ballroom and across the hall and pushed open the door to the library.
“Now Clarissa…” he began impatiently, but she was in his arms, her own wrapped tightly round his neck and her thinly clad body pressed hard against the length of his own, awakening reluctant memories of old desires.
“What is all this?” he asked huskily.
“I want you,” she said in a low voice, her mouth inches from his own.
Hubert forgot about Mary, he forgot that Clarissa was engaged to another man. It seemed to him that since that terrible battle he had been living each minute of the day as it came along, glad only to be alive with all that hell and carnage behind him.
He bent his head and explored her mouth, his mind beginning to register with reluctant surprise that nothing was happening to his senses.
* * *
“Oh, please Major Godwin. Do find Hubert for me,” said Mary her voice breaking on a sob.
“I shall fetch the Marquise,” said the Major.
Mary looked wildly towards the refreshment room. Biggs stood with Colonel Fairfax at his side. He was surrounded by a court of elderly admirers. He bent his great turbaned head and began recounting something in a low voice. His audience listened intently and then burst out into roars of salacious laughter. Mary shuddered. She remembered that her maid Marie Juneaux had told her indignantly that the butler, when he was in his cups, had the bad habit of regaling the servants’ hall with a stream of warm anecdotes. And Biggs’s pudgy gloved hand was tightly holding onto a large bumper of champagne.