Authors: Step in Time
“Of course not!” Jeremiah’s cheeks mottled in anger. “I wouldn’t dirty my hands with such trash let alone permit it in my house.”
“Well, it’s a little silly in spots,” remarked Amanda, “but I don’t know as I’d go so far as to call it trash.”
Jeremiah’s mouth fell open, which was, perhaps, unfortunate, since he was at present masticating a large portion of calves’ brains. “Don’t tell me you’ve read the thing?”
“All right, Papa,” replied Amanda demurely. “I shan’t tell you anything of the sort.”
“Now see here, missy—”
“It is entirely possible,” said Ash coolly, his voice falling on Jeremiah’s incipient diatribe like a spray of water, “that now that he is married Byron will settle down and become a loving husband and father.”
Amanda laughed shortly. “I wouldn’t bet on that. By this time next year, Anabella will have left him, with their baby, and not too long after that—” She stopped abruptly. “At least—that’s what will probably happen,” she murmured lamely, and finished in a rush. “I wonder, could I have some more of those delectable calves’ brains?”
The dinner plodded on through several more courses, which included beef and lamb in various forms, covered in various sauces, and concluded with a massive assortment of pastries. Amanda could only marvel at the earl’s continued sang froid, even though, to her heightened perception, distaste and a sort of sad horror radiated from him like dissonances from a badly tuned violin.
Afterwards, the Bridges and their guest gathered in the drawing room for postprandial conversation. After fifteen minutes of this, Amanda was ready to grab the earl’s hand and dash out into the night for a lungful of fresh air. At last, however, Serena rose.
“It’s time we were leaving, my love,” she said to Jeremiah, who heaved himself to his feet with some reluctance. Outer wraps were called for and the carriage brought round. Amanda’s last thought as she was handed in to sit beside her mother, was that tonight’s party could not possibly be any more of an ordeal than dinner had been.
Sir Barnaby and Lady Marchford lived in Hill Street, a quiet thoroughfare that sloped down to Berkeley Square. “A fashionable address,” said Serena Bridge, her lips curving in satisfaction, “but hardly of the distinction of Upper Brook Street.”
Tonight, the street was anything but quiet. A multitude of carriages of every shape and description jostled for position, with the general destination being a large town house just about halfway down the hill. Flambeaux lit the exterior in a flickering radiance and footmen and link boys scurried like mice, responding to shouted orders from coachmen and other servants.
Amanda drank in the sight, for it was the embodiment of a hundred scenes she had absorbed from books. She could hardly wait to get inside.
Her wish remained unfulfilled for almost an hour, and when the Bridge party at last disembarked on the sidewalk outside the Marchford home, they found themselves immediately swept up in the procession entering the impressive edifice. Once inside, another wait lay in store for them as they joined a long line of guests that wound through the hall and up the staircase to the ballroom above. The persons just ahead and behind the Bridges were apparently unknown to them, so there was little conversation, but a good deal of nodding and genteel waving took place. Serena, her fixed smile never wavering, kept up a steady stream of instruction to Amanda under her breath.
“Look, there is Lady Bumfret in the puce satin. That is her daughter Hermione with her. You and she went to school together, although she has not deigned to take up the connection. Odious woman!” The words were accompanied with a widening of her smile and a waggling of her fingers at the lady in puce.
“And, see,” continued Serena, “just coming in the door are Lord and Lady Robert Meecham. You must be particularly nice to her, for she is a friend to Lady Jersey, and when your betrothal is announced I count on getting vouchers from her. Oh!” She gave a start. “If that isn’t Georgina Faversham and her mama. Wave, Amanda. Gracious, doesn’t the girl look a fright in that gown? Why in the world would Maude let her wear yellow?”
The catalog continued without interruption as the group slowly ascended the stairs, and Amanda was acutely conscious of Ash’s presence just behind her. Good grief, what must he think of the Bridge family? Although, by now he must be perfectly aware of the general awfulness of his soon-to-be-acquired relatives. Meanwhile, Amanda listened carefully to Serena’s monologue, gleaning clues for future reference.
At last, they reached their destination, and, at the entrance to the ballroom were announced in rotund tones by a liveried servant. A plump matron with a profusion of teeth, all of which showed when she smiled, grasped Serena’s gloved hand.
“Serena! How lovely to see you! Good evening, Mr. Bridge.” This in slightly less cordial accents. “And, dear Amanda—in looks, as ever, I see.”
Her husband, whose protuberant eyes twinkled from beneath bushy eyebrows, chuckled in agreement. “You’ll have ‘em all buzzin’ around, m’dear, like bees to a honey pot.”
“Lord Ashindon!” exclaimed Lady Marchford. “You have come, after all. Welcome.” Her gaze darted between the earl and Amanda, and she bestowed a knowing congratulatory smile on Serena before turning her attention to the next guests in line.
Amanda looked around in appreciation at the scene before her as Serena steered her daughter into a large drawing room. Crowds of guests drifted in and out of the room, and young women garbed in whites and pastels provided a backdrop for the older ladies, who looked very much like blossoms cast adrift on a stream in their gaily colored gowns. The gentlemen all wore sober colors, thanks, Amanda supposed, to the influence of Beau Brummell.
With a bow, Ash left the ladies to their own devices, and Amanda was surprised at how forlorn she felt at his departure. Which was, of course, absurd. The man was merely a presence in what she persevered in calling a hallucination. The fact that her fantasy was becoming ever more complex and real to her and seemed to be lasting an awfully long time was becoming of greater concern to her—but she wouldn’t think about that now.
She became aware that Serena was speaking again. “Here comes Candace Macclesfield. Do you remember her?”
“Yes, Mama. She has come to visit twice since my accident.”
Miss Macclesfield, a plump brunette of twenty summers, was not one of Miss Bridge’s close friends, but her recent betrothal to the Viscount Ramsden had propelled her into the parlors of everyone of her acquaintance so that she could gloat in a suitably genteel fashion. Amanda had dealt with her handily, since the damsel’s thoughts were so taken up by her coming good fortune that Amanda’s few lapses were hardly noticed. Amanda turned to greet the young woman with a smile and was soon deep in conversation, most of which concerned bride clothes and nuptial journeys.
From across the room, Ash watched Amanda unobtrusively. He was surprised at the look of sympathy mixed with exasperation he had intercepted earlier from her, when they had still been standing on the stairway, mixed, he thought, with a tinge of embarrassment. All three, certainly, were understandable. He would make it one of his first priorities when they were married to put as much distance between himself and Papa and Mama Bridge as possible. When he was married. He experienced the most peculiar sensations as the words echoed in his mind.
The past week had not been pleasant for Lord Ashindon. For the first few days after he had left Lianne, his thoughts had been wholly occupied with his lost love. The taste of her mouth beneath his haunted him and her green eyes plagued his dreams. As he had so many years ago, he found himself railing again at the fates that conspired to rob him of his one chance for happiness. He recalled the anguish in Lianne’s eyes at the news of his betrothal. For the first time, he knew a twinge of irritation at this most perfect of females. Had Lianne really expected him to remain unmarried? To deny his duty to his family? Did she begrudge him the right to make a life of his own, after she had come close to destroying it?
Ah well, Lianne was what she was and perhaps could not be blamed for being unwilling to relinquish the devotion of one who, after all, had declared himself hers, heart and soul. She was only human, after all. It was borne to him with some astonishment, that he had never before thought of the lovely Lianne in the light of mere mortality. He was even more astonished some days later, when his thoughts persisted in drifting to Amanda Bridge, and he discovered that he was looking forward to the Marchford ball with more anticipation than he would have thought possible.
Now, gazing at her, he thought back to the moment when she had descended the staircase toward him, straight and slender as a young goddess. She moved with a grace and surety she had never displayed before her “incident,” as he was coming to think of her swoon in Grosvenor Chapel. What had happened to her in those few moments, to change her so completely? Where before she had simpered girlishly and giggled at every pleasantry, her smile was now all womanly mystery. He watched her as she moved through the crowd of guests, her long-legged stride at once seductive and innocently appealing. It seemed to him that she moved with an athletic grace she had not displayed before, as though, suddenly, she reveled in her youth and strength.
A thoroughly unladylike concept, he mused, and thoroughly un-Amandalike. She usually took small, kittenish steps. And speaking of thoroughly un-Amandalike, was it really she who had evinced an interest in the affairs of Napoleon and Wellington? To say nothing of her passionate sentiments on behalf of those who had spilled their blood for England. Good God, did the little Bridge actually possess a brain?
For the next hour or so, Ash performed his social obligations. He danced with his host’s daughters, and those of several of his acquaintances. He conversed lightly with various matrons who had been friends of his mother’s, and he chatted with gentlemen known to him from his clubs. At last, from the ballroom, the sound he had been waiting for struck his ears.
He moved to Amanda’s side, and as he took her hand in his, he was conscious of a surge of anticipation rising within him.
“They are playing a waltz, my dear, and I think this is our dance.”
Chapter Nine
Amanda’s eyes widened as Lord Ashindon, without speaking, led her onto the floor. It was with some trepidation that she lifted her arms to him, for she had not been entirely truthful when she had told the earl that she could waltz. She was acquainted with the steps and had lurched around the floor once or twice in her father’s arms at family get-togethers, but she had never in her adult life actually danced. On the few occasions when she had been asked, she had refused, unable to bear the whispers and pitying looks she was sure would follow her progress.
Thus, it was no doubt sheer panic that caused the trembling deep within her when Ash placed his arm about her waist and began to draw her into the compelling rhythm of the dance.
In 1815, Amanda knew, the waltz was considered quite daring, for the lady allowed her waist to be encircled by her partner, to whom she might not even be betrothed! In 1996, of course, the dance was almost laughable, an amusing anachronism favored by golden-agers and ballroom dance contestants.
What Amanda felt, however, as Ash swept her about the room in great, lazy circles, was not amusement. The pressure of his hand on her back caused a slow heat to rise within her that simmered and bubbled in the sheer exhilaration of movement. This was wonderful! She felt as though her feet might leave the floor, taking her to unimagined heights and delights. She was light as thistledown—she was snowflakes on the wind! She wished the music would go on forever, and when it ended, she wanted to cry.
His dark eyes hooded, Ash bowed formally. “You were right, my dear,” he murmured as he returned her to the group of giggling damsels with whom she’d been conversing earlier. “You are very well acquainted with the steps of the waltz.”
Amanda looked after him, the last strains of the music still fizzing in her veins like champagne, and it was some moments before she became aware that Cordelia Fordham was speaking to her.
“Goodness!” exclaimed the girl breathlessly. “I have never seen you dance so well, Amanda. Nor did I suspect that Lord Ashindon had such talent. The two of you were the cynosure of all eyes!”
Before Amanda could reply, a very young gentleman materialized at her elbow, requesting, in worshipful tones, her hand for the next dance. Since the orchestra was tuning up for what sounded like a jig, Amanda refused politely, but she watched in interest as a number of couples took to the floor for some sort of reel. The young gentleman asked Cordelia to dance, and Amanda found herself alone.
But not for long.
“My love,” a voice whispered tensely in her ear, “I have been waiting in agony for a chance to get you alone!”
Amanda turned sharply to behold one of the handsomest men she had ever seen. His hair was almost the same shade as hers, molded just as artfully into a tumble of curls. His eyes, however, were not blue, but a curiously light gray. He was just above medium height and wore his evening wear with a slender elegance. He grasped her hand and squeezed it before running fingers up along the inside of her arm.
Amanda stepped back hastily, observing that he was not nearly as good-looking as she had thought on first glance. The gray eyes were flat and unrevealing, and rather close set. His full lips were petulant, just now pursed in a slight pout. The beginnings of a paunch could be glimpsed beneath his satin waistcoat.
“Sir!” she exclaimed in her best affronted-maiden manner.
The gentleman removed his hand at once. “Forgive me, my darling. I was overcome by emotion. You cannot know my anguish at not beholding your angelic countenance for over a week!”
By now, Amanda was beginning to feel slightly ill. She also had a pretty good idea with whom she was speaking. “Cosmo?” she asked in amazement. “I thought you’d left town.”
“Surely,” breathed young Amanda’s suitor, “you did not think I could stay away. But, come...” Once more, he took her hand in an attempt to lead her out of the ballroom. “Let us go somewhere where we can be private.”