Amy Lake (7 page)

“Freddie, what are you on about?”  I was more irritated with him than I should have been, I suppose, but I had only just discovered, the evening before, that he intended to spend another fortnight at Threestone, the hunting lodge, and in preparation had purchased two cases of what I believe must be—by its price—the finest brandy in all of England.

My brother recovered quickly.  “Oh, don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud,” he said, giving me his most amiable smile.  This smile always works to excellent effect with our parents.  “I’m looking forward to accompanying my beautiful and charming sister, that’s all.”

“Gods, Freddie,” I said, and almost stuck my tongue out at him.

He left, and I forgot the matter, also forgetting to tell him that he would not, in fact, be accompanying me to the ball.  I was escaping to the Barre house that afternoon, so that I could pick a ball gown from one of Cassandra’s closets.  Cassie and I would make our way to the Lark in one of Sir Reginald’s carriages.  

* * * *

Of all the gowns I have ever borrowed from Cassie, I believe the one I wore that night is my favorite.  ’Twas ivory silk with a gauze overskirt.  The bodice was embroidered so heavily that it took on the appearance of light tapestry, with seed pearls outlining the neck.  The sleeves were of the same gauze as the overskirt, but cut partially through.  The bodice, I may also say, fit me to a trice.

Although we are of similar height Cassandra is a bit larger on top than I am, and on previous occasions—when I had borrowed a gown—the maid had spent a few minutes making adjustments with needle and thread.  But the ivory silk fit as if ’twas made for me, and only much later did I discover that, indeed, it was.

Miss Barre had decided the countess was never coming to her senses, and had given the necessary instructions to Madame Gaultier.  How she convinced her own parents to purchase an expensive ball gown that did not even fit her I do not know, although as I have said, Sir Reginald and Lady Cynthia tend to a benign inattention with respect to their daughter, and what Cassie wanted—   At any rate, I left for the Larkinton ball dressed in this beautiful ensemble, the gown paired with matching slippers and a shawl, and as I descended from the Barre carriage in front of the marquess’s townhouse, I felt as if my life was about to change.

* * * *

We spied Carys and Isolde first.  They were attended by their mother, and surrounded by an admiring flock of young men.  I looked for the viscount, unsuccessfully.

“Where is he?” I whispered to Miss Barre.

“Over there,” she replied, nodding in the direction of the orchestra.

The viscount was in conversation with, of all people, my father.  The earl was red-faced and gesturing but admittedly, that is only usual for him.

“Why is he talking to the earl?” I hissed.

“Who knows?  ’Tis probably horses or some such.”  Cassandra was looking around the room for likely dance partners; there would soon be a line in front of us.  In the meantime, Amelia Hingham arrived, smiling and lovely in a watered silk.  She and Cassie began a comprehensive appraisal of the current fashions on display, the consensus being that waistlines were in danger of reaching the neck.

“Oh, look!  ’Tis Lady Helen and Lord Daniel.”

Lord Daniel was another Wilmott; Lady Helen’s second oldest brother and a favorite, we suspect, of Amelia’s.  We had accused her recently of having a
tendre
for him, to which Miss Hingham replied that she’d as soon marry a goat.  As Lord Daniel is a perfectly well-favoured gentleman with no hint of the barn about him, this has only confirmed our suspicions. 

“Good evening Lord Daniel,” said Amelia, coolly.

“Hello, Miss Hingham,” replied Lady Helen’s brother, with equal frost.

Lady Helen caught my eye and gave a tiny shrug, as if to say, what can you do?  Amelia and Lord Daniel immediately began an argument over the relative merits of the Lincolnshire’s claret cup and that of our current host.  From the tone of their voices one would think that the future of the kingdom was in question.  As the stakes were raised—his lordship claiming the first waltz if the Larkinton cup turned out to be made with anything having the faintest resemblance to a French bordeaux—Lady Helen caught me up on the latest news of Peter’s engagement. 

Which was, it seemed, not entirely at an end, as Miss Montvale had thought better of crying off by the next day, and both parties were now attempting to repair the break with as little embarrassment as possible.

“I wonder that her parents allowed it in the first place,” I said.

“Peter thinks that they were attempting to, as one says, teach Alice a lesson.”

“A rather expensive lesson, if your brother does not accept the olive branch.”

“Oh, he will,” said Lady Helen.

“Why?  She seems like a rather soppy creature to live with.”

She shrugged again.  “Yes, doesn’t she?  But he’s in love.”

I watched Lord Davies and my father from the side of my eye as we chatted.  They did not speak long, and seemed to part easily enough.  I breathed relief, and wondered how soon he might ask me for a dance.

Miss Hingham and Lord Daniel had advanced their argument to include disagreements over the entire subject of French wine.

He would ask, wouldn’t he?  The thought of spending the entire evening without speaking to the viscount was remarkably depressing.  I’d never had these feelings about any other gentleman, and I wasn’t sure I liked them.  To have your happiness depend on attentions from a certain individual, with whom you had no formal ties?  How had I gotten myself into such a fix?

“Lady Regina.”

My heart made its usual leap at the sound of his voice.

“Would you waltz with me?”

His voice was deep and I seemed to feel it in my toes.  His hand was outstretched.

Oh, yes.  

Chapter 9: The Kiss

’Twas even better than the first time.  The music was particularly fine and I could not stop the pulse of exhilaration which flooded my veins and, no doubt, brought colour to my cheeks.

I hoped it did not clash too dreadfully with my hair.

He had sought me out for the waltz.  Me.  At that moment I felt my life must be perfect, and all quibbles about allowing one’s happiness to center on another individual were forgotten.  We followed an easy pattern around the ballroom, threading between other couples and avoiding the usual hazards; besides Lord Culpepper and such, there were always a few couples who, for whatever reason, simply stopped dancing to talk.  His lordship managed it all with ease.

His arms felt so strong and my hand was small in his.

Amelia Hingham and Lord Daniel passed close by, and I saw, with some shock, what I had never seen before; that Lord Daniel, at least, was besotted.

How had this escaped me?  I was not as sure about Miss Hingham, as she was ever one to smile and laugh with all.  But I thought, suddenly, of how rarely Amelia waltzed with anyone else.  The world seemed awash with young men and women in love.  What else had I missed?  

“You are looking very well this evening,” said the viscount.

I smiled.  “Thank you.”

Was it my imagination?  Did his fingers tighten fractionally against my back?  We made another circle around the room.

“How are your sisters?” I asked Lord Davies.  “Has Carys learned to enjoy London?”

The viscount nodded.  “Carys prefers Cornwall,” he said, “but she is not quite the country mouse that my mother would have one believe.  She has been greatly intrigued by the lectures at the Royal Society.”

I knew of this society, of course; ’twas for gentlemen of philosophy, and the public was occasionally invited to hear some particular address given by its members.

“Ah.  And do you accompany her?”

“Often, yes.  Although my scientifical interests tend more to such unexciting matters as the turnip crop and sheep.”

“I understand they are delicate creatures, subject to any number of illnesses.”

“Turnips are actually rather undemanding.”

Caught off guard, I nearly lost my step.  “Fustian!” I accused him, laughing. 

“Ah, but if you are referring to the
sheep
—”  He grinned back at me, and I believe my feet left the floor—“’Delicate is an understatement, I fear.”   

He told me a bit of the new system of ‘rotating’ crops, and that sheep were rather silly in addition to everything else, and would eat things that upset their digestion, time after time.

The years in Cornwall had done him no harm in the waltz, as not once did his step falter.  I began to wonder about his time in London, as a young man, before he moved the family to Pencarrow.  He was no stranger to balls.  Was there some young lady who had caught his interest then?

The music began to fade.  For a young lady with hopes this was the moment of high drama in a waltz.  A gentleman of skill—which certainly described Lord Davies—could ensure that the couple ended the dance near the spot where they started, an unspoken signal that each should move on to other partners.  Or—

With the last strains of music we found ourselves directly opposite to our starting point, with the open doors to the Larkinton’s enormous garden only steps away.

“Perhaps a moment on the terrace?” asked Lord Davies.

I hoped that my face did not reveal my thoughts.  “Of course,” I said.  The terrace itself was in full view of the dancers; even Sally Jersey would not object to a brief escape from the inevitably overheated ballroom.  We stepped through into the night.

Although there is no accounting for what happened next, I must preface my remarks by avowing that I am
not
a forward female, and I had no intention of behaving as one.  A brief episode of madness is the best I can do by way of explanation.  How could I have guessed that the viscount found me so enticing?  Attractive, yes, but—

My own motives would have been clear enough to anyone looking at the two of us, as he was the most handsome gentleman in the room, and I include Lord Cray, who is generally accounted worthy to swoon over.  But what about his?  Handsome gentlemen of excellent fortune—many in the room knew of his wealth—can have their pick of the ladies. 

Yet he had picked me.

* * * *

It began, innocently enough, with a remark on the Larkinton gardens, clearly visible below us in the moonlight.  Torches placed here and there burned along the gravel pathways, illuminating patches of shining green.  One
could
descend by the terrace staircase into the garden, and we saw several who had done so, but ’twas more acceptable for an affianced pair.  

I wondered if Peter had managed to come to an understanding with Miss Montvale.  Perhaps they were in the garden even now, together in the shadows, and—

Oh, dear.

I think my eyes had nearly closed; I blinked and attempted to focus on the viscount, who was gazing away from me—thank heavens—in the direction of the nearest
parterre
, where drifts of lavender surrounded a central holly and sent their fragrance into the warm night.  I inhaled deeply and fought off a wave of dizziness.

“They seem more in the French style than the English,” said Lord Davies, commenting on this
parterre
, which was rectangular and outlined in tightly clipped box.

“The marquess,” I replied—because I’d listened to his lordship expostulate on this very theme more than once—“believes that the discipline of the French approach balances the natural tendency of nature to disorder.”

He laughed, and I joined him.

“And disorder is to be avoided, then?” said his lordship.

“At any cost.”

“The marquess is an Epicurean, then.  Wasn’t it Epicurus who believed order was primary to chaos?”

A rhetorical question, I assumed, but I could not resist an addition.  “But Plato says—”

We began a discussion of the
Timaeus
and perhaps neither of us realized that we were working our way, by degrees, into a more secluded part of the terrace.  I knew this spot well, although only by reputation.  Cassandra claims she spied Lady Helen there one evening, in the arms of Benedict Easton, but Helen says she would not visit a dark corner of the Larkinton’s terrace with Benedict Easton if he were the last gentleman in London. 

I was about to remark on Aristotle’s concept of ‘right function’ when the viscount kissed me.  Or I kissed him, as he later claimed in a moment of anger.  In either case, ’tis undoubtedly true that I returned the kiss, and it continued for some time, and his lips were hard against mine, and his hands were so strong at my waist and the back of my head that I would not have moved an inch had I fainted.

Which for a moment I thought possible.  His hands moved up from my back to cup my face and his lips became even more demanding.  My knees weakened and I leaned back against the balustrade.

“Regina,” he murmured.

I wasn’t up to polite conversation, as I was too occupied in enjoying the kiss.  ’Twas not my first—

Oh, very well.  ’Twas exactly my first, because I don’t count the chaste pecks that Lord Humphrey plants on the cheek of every woman he meets.  Lord Humphrey is seventy if he is a day, and rather hard of hearing as well as half-blind, so no-one ever tries to avoid the kiss, we just lean in to assist his aim.  Otherwise one risks the chance of his lips wandering rather far astray.

This was not a chaste kiss, I thought, muzzily.  This was some previously unvisited part of heaven, and I wished that Lord Davies would continue . . . forever.

He kissed my neck, and the curve of my jaw.

“A beautiful disorder, indeed,” he murmured and his fingertips touched my hair.

He said something else, it was half-whispered into my ear.  I did not catch the words.  His hands were now again at my back, caressing and leaving my skin on fire for more.  I suppose I must have leaned into him and a quiet groan was my reward—

Everything became abruptly much more earnest.  He crushed me to his chest and I could hardly breathe.  I did not resist; in truth, it never entered my mind.

He released me without warning.