A Regency Match (18 page)

He winked naughtily, and there was a burst of knowing laughter from the gentlemen. The footmen circled the table, providing most of the gentlemen with glasses of the smuggled brandy, although the ladies turned the offer aside and kept to their champagne.

“And now, if you are all prepared to imbibe, I shall make my toast,” Julian proceeded. “In behalf of Lady Bethune and my sister Charlotte, it is my honor to announce to you all the betrothal of Miss Iris Bethune to Marcus Harvey, fifth Earl of Wynwood and my beloved nephew. To Iris and Marcus! May you have a life of domestic happiness, the only bliss of Paradise, Cowper says, that has survived the fall.”

There were smiles all around, enthusiastic applause, and a cry or two of “Hear, hear!” Then the gentlemen took to their feet, everyone raised their glasses to salute the betrothed couple, the drinks were downed, and it was over. Even Marcus, if he'd been challenged, would have had to admit that the ceremony had not been much of an ordeal.

The banquet-room doors were thrown open, and the sound of music flooded in. With the leisurely contentment of well-fed cats, the assemblage made their way in twos and threes to the ballroom. At the entrance to the ballroom, Iris and Marcus stood receiving the personal good wishes of each guest. With under forty in attendance, there was no crush to surround them, and the atmosphere was easy and informal. There was a general feeling of sincere warmth, and all the kisses and blessings bestowed on the couple seemed heartfelt.

Sophy, trying to be inconspicuous, hid in her grandmother's wake as they waited to congratulate the young couple. She dreaded the moment when she would have to offer her good wishes. She only, of all the guests, had not listened to Julian's words with a feeling of good will. In fact, every word of his announcement had struck her like a hammer-blow.

Ever since the night in West Hoathly, she'd found her thoughts full of Marcus Harvey. At night her dreams were centered about him, and in the daytime she found herself brooding about him whenever she failed to concentrate her mind on other matters. She knew that this newly-born obsession was completely unjustified and utterly foolish, but she couldn't seem to help herself. He had suddenly become for her the epitome of every masculine virtue, the embodiment of all her romantic ideals. Never mind that, only a few days before, she had found him stuffy, pretentious and insufferably high in the instep. Never mind that he held her in low esteem. For no reason that she could understand, all that had changed. He now seemed to her almost knightly in his perfection.

To make matters worse, the things his mother had told her during that afternoon visit to Sophy's bedside had given her hope that the betrothal would not actually be announced. Lady Charlotte had clearly indicated that she felt the betrothal to Miss Bethune would not be the most advisable match for her son. On the basis of this very insubstantial clue, she had let herself hope that the betrothal would not be announced. She was not so befuddled as to express that hope to herself consciously, of course, but it had seeped into the back of her mind nevertheless. And when Julian had actually said the words, she'd almost reeled in dismay.

Not that the cancellation of the betrothal would have made any real difference to Sophy's expectations. Even if Marcus had
not
become betrothed to Miss Bethune, there was not the slightest indication he would turn to
her
. In the past few days, when she'd done nothing to disturb the serene tenor of the proceedings, he had completely ignored her. And she had not the slightest doubt that if she'd caused any upheaval, he would have regarded her with his usual air of resigned and ill-disguised distaste. Therefore, she told herself with perfect logic, there was no reason to hope that the betrothal would not take place. No reason at all.

Nevertheless, she found herself most painfully beset when Julian made the announcement. Logical arguments gave her no comfort. She had looked down the table at Lady Wynwood, the only other person in the room who might possibly feel as she did, instinctively seeking company in her misery. But there was not the least sign in Lady Wynwood's benign smile that anything was troubling her, and Sophy had had the additional discomfort of having to suffer alone.

Now she would have to take Iris's hand and wish her well. And she would have to tell Marcus how happy she was for him. Well, everyone considered her to be “dramatic”—an actress by nature. She would see if they were right. If she could say the necessary words without stumbling, if her lips could smile without trembling, she was an actress indeed.

Staying close behind her grandmother, she smiled and murmured innocuous compliments that evidently were sufficiently well-expressed to cause no adverse reactions. Iris Bethune thanked her warmly, and Marcus smiled at her pleasantly enough. And before she quite realized that the ordeal was over, she found herself inside the ballroom with Dennis Stanford at her side.

The younger and more energetic of the guests had already begun to form a set for a country dance, while the others strolled about the room or sat down on the sofas to watch and chat. Dennis firmly propelled Sophy to the dance floor, refusing to accept her absently-phrased objections. He not only was determined to make some headway with the tantalizing Miss Edgerton this evening, but he hoped to make clear to the persistent Fanny that he was not the man for her. Fanny was forced to accept the company of Bertie for the dance. Neither Bertie nor Fanny looked happy to be in each other's company, for Bertie had been forced into standing up with her by the insistence of his mother. Isabel had felt so sorry for the girl that she had ordered her son to partner Miss Carrington or face her wrath. But it was painfully obvious to Fanny that Bertie had no liking for dancing or for her budding charms.

The dance began, and Dennis immediately set about attempting to ingratiate himself in the eyes of the hitherto-unreachable Sophia. “Do you know that you're the most beautiful creature in this room?” he murmured into her ear as they danced the first figure.

“What flummery!” Sophy said archly, determined to concentrate on the man at hand and forget her pain. “I care nothing for flattery, Mr. Stanford.”

Before he could respond, she whirled away from him to another partner, as the figure of the dance demanded. The next time they came together, he said challengingly, “I take exception to two points in your last remark to me, ma'am.”

“What two points? I don't keep a mental record of my casual remarks, I'm afraid,” she responded saucily.

“I can't tell you properly now, or I shall lose count,” he laughed as they made a turn. “Besides, with all the changing of partners in these dances, we shall have to part between each sentence. You must sit out the next dance with me.”

She had no opportunity to answer for the next few measures. When they again came together, he asked, “Well?”

“Well what, sir?”

“Will you sit out the next dance with me?”

“I'm afraid I can't. I'm promised to my cousin.”

“Confound the fellow, why can't he stay with the partner he has now?” Dennis growled, but Sophy had already passed out of his hands.

It was not until three dances later that he was able to secure her companionship. The two took seats on a sofa in the corner of the ballroom, and Sophy leaned back against the cushions with a breathless sigh. “It's good to sit down,” she admitted wearily.

“I suppose there is not much use in my interpreting that remark to mean it is good to be in my company, is there?” Dennis asked wistfully.

Sophy giggled. “It would be good to sit down in
anyone's
company after three long country dances.”

“Thank you, ma'am. I see you have no intention of flattering
me
, even though you accuse me of flattering you. Which brings me to what I wanted to say to you. When I told you that you were the loveliest creature in this room, I meant every word. Did you think I was offering you Spanish coin?”

“Of course I did. There are at least three ladies in the room tonight who far outshine me.”

“I deny that absolutely. Point them out to me, if you please.”

“First, of course, there is Iris Bethune,” Sophy said promptly. “Look over at her—she is standing at the punch bowl, see? With her golden hair tied up so, and her creamy-white dress, she looks like a princess in a fairy tale.”

“Oh, well, if one likes fairy-tale princesses, she is quite remarkable, I grant you, but my taste runs to ladies of the
real
world,” Dennis said, looking at his quarry with brazen appreciation.

“You are being quite silly, you know. And I don't like being stared at in that way,” Sophy said in an attempt to depress his pretensions.

“I beg your pardon. But please continue, ma'am. Who else do you imagine outshines you?”

“This is a very absurd conversation, Mr. Stanford, but if you insist, I can point out Mrs. Ashley-Davies, who came with the Squire's party. I think she is quite breathtaking.”

“There is only one lady here who takes
my
breath away, and
she
rewards me for my admiration by addressing me as Mr. Stanford. My name, as you well know, is Dennis.”

“I'll make a bargain with you, sir. If you'll promise to refrain from embarrassing me with your excessively grandiose compliments and your rather leering stares, I shall be happy to call you Dennis.”

Dennis drew himself erect in offended dignity. “What a heartless thing to say! You've completely misjudged me, and you've maligned my perfectly innocent attempts to show my sincere admiration for you. I don't know whether to accept your bargain or not.”

“Well, while you're making up your mind, old fellow, I'm going to steal the lady from you,” came an intruding voice. Marcus was standing before them, grinning down at them. With a little bow for Sophy, he added punctiliously, “May I have your company for the next dance, Miss Edgerton?”

Sophy's heart lurched. While carrying on the flirtatious raillery with Dennis, she'd managed to put Marcus in the back of her mind. His unexpected presence threw her off balance. “Well. I … I …” she stuttered.

“Go away, Marcus, or I shall call you out,” Dennis declared in mock fury. “Have you no manners? How dare you intrude on a
tête-à-tête
?”

Marcus looked at Sophy in quizzical amusement. “Am I intruding on a
tête-à-tête
, Miss Edgerton? Or am I right in supposing that you are ready to be rescued from his ‘grandiose compliments and leering stares'?”

Dennis jumped to his feet and reached for an imaginary sword. “On guard, you knave!” he cried. “Defend yourself! For having brazenly eavesdropped on a private conversation and attempting to steal away my lady, I shall run you through!”

Marcus laughed and pushed him back upon the sofa. “Be quiet, you cod's head, or you'll have every eye on us. I didn't eavesdrop; your voices were not lowered enough. And as for stealing away your lady, I claim it as my right.
Droit du seigneur
or something of the sort. What do you say, Miss Edgerton?”

“Are you sure you wish my company, sir?” Sophy couldn't resist asking. “Aren't you afraid I'll tread on your toes, or faint in your arms, or do something equally shocking?”

Dennis chortled but said nothing. Marcus, although a little red about the ears, was not discomposed. “I'm feeling quite daring this evening, ma'am,” he said banteringly, “and am quite willing to take my chances.”

“Well, then, how can I refuse?” she said a bit breathlessly, rising and taking his arm.

“
I'm
the one who's going to do something shocking,” Dennis threatened as they began to walk away. “I'm going to fetch a pair of dueling pistols, that's what I'm going to do!” But Sophy and Marcus merely laughed and went on to the dance floor.

The music had scarcely begun, however, and Marcus had just whispered, “You may step on my toes as much as you wish, my dear, but you won't faint, will you?” into her ear, when there was a commotion at the far end of the room. The far wall was lined with three pairs of French doors leading to a balustraded terrace, all of which were closed against the driving rain. But Mrs. Maynard had seen a face staring in at them from one of those doors and had fallen down in a swoon.

The music stopped, a crowd of ladies circled Mrs. Maynard and endeavored to bring her round with salts, burnt feathers and cold cloths. Marcus, with several of the other men at his heels, ran out into the rain to catch the miscreant. But the darkness and the downpour soon drove them to retreat, and they again returned empty-handed. By that time, Mrs. Maynard had come to her senses and was enjoying the sensation of being the center of an attentive audience. She was able to repeat her story three or four times before the crowd began to wander away. As far as she was concerned, the evening was an unqualified success.

The doughty searchers shook the raindrops from their hair and shoulders and returned to their activities. Card games and conversations were resumed, the musicians picked up their instruments, and the dancers took their places on the floor. “Well, Miss Edgerton,” Marcus said teasingly, circling her waist with his arm and leading her into the Grand March, “you are a source of constant amazement. I know you threatened me with something shocking, but how did you manage to arrange
that
little mischance?”

Sophia, completely taken aback, stared up at him in horror. How
could
he think that she would have had anything to do with such a frightful incident? If he had struck her a blow on the face, she couldn't have felt more assaulted.

Marcus needed only one glimpse of her stricken eyes to realize that he'd been completely misunderstood. “Good God, Sophy, I was only joking!” he explained hastily. “You can't think that I—! I would never believe that you could have had anything to do with a Peeping Tom. Don't look at me so, girl! Don't you believe me?”