The Famous Heroine/The Plumed Bonnet (13 page)

It was clear that the Regent had accepted his invitation to Lady Fuller’s ball.

How did he know? Lord Francis asked himself rhetorically. It was easy to know. Every window and French door in the ballroom was tightly shut even though it was a warm night outside. Already, although the dancing had not even begun and all the guests had not arrived, the air was heavy with the scents of flowers and perfumes. Soon, once the dancing was in progress, it would be unbearable.

The Prince of Wales was terrified of drafts. Coveted invitations to Carlton House and the Pavilion at Brighton were also dreaded invitations. It was a physical ordeal to be a guest of Prinny or to be a guest at a function he had decided he might favor—if he was in the mood.

Lord Francis looked about him, acknowledged a few friends and acquaintances with a nod or a discreet raising
of the hand, and located the Duchess of Bridgwater and her party. Her grace, her usual elegant self in dark green, was looking rather pleased with herself. As a chaperon she had good reason to be pleased. At least the largest gathering in the whole room was clustered about the two young ladies in her charge. Those about Cora Downes were almost exclusively gentlemen.

Lord Francis fingered his quizzing glass and then raised it to his eye.

“Yes, all is as it should be,” the Duke of Bridgwater said from beside him a few moments later. “He has come up to scratch.”

“Pandry?” Lord Francis frowned. The man was shorter than she was by a good two inches and he was already, at the age of five- or six-and-twenty, showing signs of portliness to come. Not to mention incipient baldness. All of which were no rational disqualifications for him as her husband. But Lord Francis hoped she would have better taste.

“Greenwald,” his grace said. “He called on me this morning and we came to a very amicable settlement. It seems the same can be said for his visit to Jane this afternoon. She is—glowing, would you not agree, Kneller?”

Lord Francis changed the direction of his glass. Yes, indeed. Lady Jane Munro was talking with Greenwald’s mother while the earl stood beside them, looking a comic mixture of smugness and sheepishness. Lady Jane herself was glowing, as Bridgwater had just said.

“My congratulations,” Lord Francis said. “Two sisters and both well settled.”

“Johnson called too this morning,” the duke said. “For Miss Downes, of course. I had to direct him to my mother since I have no authority to negotiate on her behalf. It could well be a memorable day for my mother.”

“Johnson?” Lord Francis’s brows snapped together
again. Johnson had a pea for a brain. And he was at least
three
inches shorter than she was.

“He has a very respectable property in Berkshire,” the duke said, “and a tidy income. She will have done very well for herself if she has netted him. I had better pay my respects and kiss the bride-to-be yet again. Would you care to join me, Kneller?”

Lord Francis kissed the hand of Lady Jane a few moments later, shook the hand of Greenwald, and made his bow to the duchess. The betrothal had not been officially announced yet, but no secret was being made of it. The cluster of people about the couple was clear proof of that.

Cora Downes was in the center of a group of gentlemen—her usual court. His use of that word gave Lord Francis a mental jolt. Only the Incomparables of the
ton
’s beauties ever acquired courts that gathered about them wherever they went. Lady Augusta Haville was the queen of the Incomparables at this stage of the Season. Earlier she had been a mere shadow of a rival to Samantha Newman. He and Gabriel, Earl of Thornhill, had always teased Samantha about her court. And Gabe had teased
him
about his membership in that court—its most devoted member.

And now Cora Downes, the most unlikely candidate of all, had acquired her own court, all within two weeks. And in the midst of it she looked quite as comfortable and quite as animated as Samantha had ever looked.

The thought that he was after all attaching himself to someone else’s court this year amused him as he wove his way to her side and smiled at her. Not that he was really a member, of course. Courting Miss Cora Downes was the very farthest thing from his mind. But he felt a certain protective instinct toward her, and some of the members of this court were not eligible suitors at all. There was one notorious fortune hunter among them,
one inveterate gambler, and any number of fools. Of course, by now all his concerns might be academic. By now she might have betrothed herself to Johnson.

She tapped him on the arm with her fan and smiled brightly at him. “Pink,” she said. “It is my very favorite shade of pink.”

It was his favorite evening coat. Samantha had always teased him mercilessly about it, as had Gabe when he stayed at Chalcote just after Christmas—because Samantha had been there too, visiting her cousin, Gabe’s wife. But Miss Downes, he believed, though she smiled, was not teasing. It seemed almost as if she were—being kind to him? He had no chance to ponder the strange thought.

“Have you
heard
?” she asked him, leaning toward him as if she thought thereby to give them some privacy. Her cheeks had flushed and her eyes had grown anxious. “The Prince of
Wales
may be coming here this evening.”

“He does not always honor such commitments,” he said “I would not get my hopes up too high if I were you, Miss Downes.”

“My
hopes
?” Her voice was almost a squeak. “I shall die if he comes, Lord Francis. I shall just
die
.”

But he was given no chance to deal with her fears himself. There was a chorus of protest and reassurance from her court, though for a while she kept her eyes fixed on him. How could a great
heroine
—who had saved the life of a child by plunging into an icy river and the lives of four poodles by diving beneath the flashing hooves of a fierce horse—how could a heroine be afraid of meeting Prinny? The group made much mirth out of the idea.

Lord Francis merely took her hand and patted it in avuncular fashion and asked her between the mirth and her departure with Mr. Dalman for the opening set of
country dances if she had remembered to reserve the first waltz for him.

Her white gown, which was almost obligatory evening wear during her first Season in town, did not suit her, Lord Francis thought, watching her broodingly while he tapped his finger on the handle of his quizzing glass. She was far too vivid a creature for white. And the evening coiffure, all curls and ringlets piled high, did not suit either. It made her look too girlish, an impression that was incompatible with her height and her figure. He had preferred the looser style she had worn in her boudoir. He rather believed he would like it best unconfined down her back, but that was not a practical idea. Neither was it a wise idea in a room that was already quite stifling hot.

If she were an actress, he thought, or an opera singer—she could easily be an opera singer with that bosom—she would crowd a green room to overflowing every night, even without the attendant heroism. And he rather thought he might be one of the men crowding it.

It was a thought that was not worthy of him at all. And certainly not fair to her. There had been not the slightest hint of loose behavior in her since he had known her. He was ashamed of himself. Damnation, but he
liked
her. He had no wish to be also lusting after her. He had been without a woman for too long, he thought ruefully. It had seemed somehow disloyal to his broken heart to go seeking out a willing bedfellow for mere sexual satisfaction.

“Not dancing, old chap?” his grace asked. “Are you for the card room?”

“No, I think not,” Lord Francis said. “I am engaged for the first waltz.” She was twirling down the set with Dalman with such enthusiasm that if he should happen to release her hand by some chance, she would go spinning off into space—doubtless with a shriek. His lips
twitched. He could almost wish it would happen. Farce had not touched upon her tonight yet.

The duke cleared his throat. “It would not do at all, you know,” he said. “Fairhurst would have your head.”

His brother? Lord Francis turned sharply and looked, startled, at his recently acquired friend. “
What
would not do?” he asked.

“She is a merchant’s daughter,” his grace said, picking at an invisible speck of lint on his sleeve. “And you are a duke’s son and brother. Not that it is any of my concern, Kneller, but I have heard a few murmurings. And I
was
the one who asked you to take notice of the girl and help bring her into fashion.”

Lord Francis was not normally given to extremes of emotion. Perhaps that was why he was having such difficulty coping with an unexpectedly broken heart. But he felt a sudden blazing of anger.

“A few murmurings,” he said, his voice as icy as his heart was fiery. “My brother would have my head. It seems to me, Bridgwater, that you do your fair share of being your brother’s keeper. Except that you are not my brother or even any kin of mine.”

The duke took a snuffbox from a pocket, snapped the lid open, seemed to decide that the taking of snuff in a ballroom was not quite the thing, closed the lid, and put the box away again.

Bridgwater had advised him not to wear his heart on his sleeve over Samantha, Lord Francis remembered, still steaming. And now he was advising him against lusting after a merchant’s daughter. God damn it all to hell! Bridgwater had been a mere passing acquaintance until a few weeks ago, before his friend, that damned Carew, decided to play Romeo to Samantha’s Juliet.

For two pins he would pop Bridgwater a good one right here. Serve him right too.

“You are quite right, my good fellow,” his grace said and left without another word or glance.

And damn him to hell and back again
, Lord Francis thought. He did not even have the decency to know when a quarrel was being picked with him. The cowardly scoundrel had walked away.

She was weaving in and out of a line of gentlemen in her set, her eyes sparkling, her lips smiling, her feet moving with surprisingly light grace. Those murmurers were damned wrong. So was Bridgwater if he believed them. Never more wrong in their lives. Devil take it, he knew what he must look for in a bride when the time came. The time had not come and perhaps never would. The only woman he had ever loved was married to someone else and was in a delicate way.

His heart weighed down the soles of his dancing shoes again.

“O
H
,” C
ORA SAID
, “how
hot
it is in here. I shall
expire
from lack of air.” But despite her discomfort she smiled. She could not remember being happier in her life, which was surely an absurd thought when all she was doing was dancing with Lord Francis Kneller. Waltzing with him. As she had suspected, he waltzed superbly.

“Do you wish to stop and rest?” he asked her. He had watched her all through the dance but he had spoken little and had not smiled a great deal.

“No,” she said. “Oh, please no. This is so
very
wonderful. I have never been happier in my life.”

“Have you not?”

He smiled then, gently with his eyes, and she felt a rush of intense feeling for him. A protective, warm, maternal affection. She almost wished that someone would comment—with a sneer—on his pink evening
coat, which she really did think rather splendid. She would give that person such a length of her tongue that he would slink away as if whipped and bruised.

“I am so happy that my first waltz is with
you
,” she said, smiling warmly at him. “It is such an intimate dance, is it not? I would be mortally embarrassed with anyone else and would be treading all over his feet. I can relax with you. I know you are skilled enough to keep your feet from beneath mine.”

“You do yourself an injustice,” he said. “You are an excellent dancer, Miss Downes.”

She felt herself glow at the compliment. Lord Francis was so very graceful himself. “Thank you,” she said.

He was looking at her again in that quiet, unsmiling way. She smiled at him.

“What is wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “I rather believe something might be very right, in fact. Are congratulations in order, by any chance?”

She looked at him blankly for a moment and then threw back her head and laughed aloud before she remembered where she was. “You are referring to Mr. Johnson,” she said. “Oh, I ought not to laugh, Lord Francis. He came calling this afternoon and stammered his way through a very earnest speech. I do assure you I did not laugh at him. Indeed, I was much obliged to him. I let him down quite gently. I did not hurt him, you know. He is not in love with me, only with what I have become for this fleeting moment, poor man.”

“And you are not in love with him?” he said.

“Oh, goodness, no,” she said. “Or with any of them, I am sad to say. Sad for her grace’s sake, that is. She was kind enough to bring me here to find a husband for me and it must seem to her that she has achieved undreamed-of success. Several more of them are going to offer within the next week or so, you see. But I cannot
take any of them seriously. I realized that yesterday morning when they were all so silly in the park and all made fun of that poor child and his hat—though he was not a poor child as it turned out, was he? Was he not a horrid little brat? Anyway, I realized as soon as I ran into you—I almost did so literally, did I not?—that I could not care for any of
them
. I would as soon stroll in the park with just you than with twenty of them put together. So that is telling me something, is it not?” She grinned at him, remembered their surroundings, and reduced the grin to a smile.

“Yes, indeed,” he said.

She waited for him to make his own comments on the absurdity of the events in the park the day before, but he said nothing. The heat was affecting him, she guessed. And really it was quite overpowering. She looked away from him in order to drink in the splendor of her surroundings. In a few weeks she was going to be back home again, where she belonged and where she wanted to be. But she knew too that she would always remember these weeks and the wonder of the fact that for a short time she had been accepted by the
ton
and even fêted by the ton. And she would always remember Lord Francis Kneller and his pink and lemon and turquoise coats—and his kindness.