The Famous Heroine/The Plumed Bonnet (5 page)

She looked squarely at him and he could see that she
was
thinking about it. And then she laughed. It was not a giggle this time, he was happy to find. It was a laugh of unrestrained mirth, drawing to her the rather startled glances of the other couples who were forming their particular set.

“You saw me and admired me,” she said. “Oh, that is a good one.”

He was not at liberty to consider what the one was or what was good about it. The music had begun and Lady Markley’s daughter and her newly betrothed were leading off the first set.

It was indeed a lively country dance, which the ladies performed with grace and precision and Miss Cora Downes performed with—enthusiasm. She danced with energetic vigor just as if there were not a whole eveningful of sets yet to be danced, and with a bright smile on her face.

She danced, Lord Francis decided, as if she should have the ribbon of a maypole in her hand and sunshine on her face and in her loosened chestnut hair and all the fresh beauty of a village green surrounding her.

He watched her with considerable amusement and not a little appreciation—in her own way she was rather magnificent, he decided. And other gentlemen watched her too. There was something about her even apart from her height and her curves that would inevitably draw male eyes. Something that was not quite vulgar—not at all vulgar, in fact. But something very different from what one expected to find in a fashionable ballroom in London. Some—well, some raw femininity.

Her grace of Bridgwater might well have problems marrying the girl off
, Lord Francis thought. Not just because of her origins—indeed, if it was true that the father was almost indecently wealthy, there would be any number of impecunious gentlemen, and even a few moderately pecunious ones, who would be only too delighted to overlook the fact that he had made his fortune in trade. No, it was the woman’s looks and manner that would discourage serious suitors. Any red-blooded male would immediately dream of setting a mattress at Miss Cora Downes’s back, whereas precious few of them
would indulge in any corresponding dream of leading her to the altar first.

It was unfortunate.

He rather suspected that before the Season was over—unless the considerable awe in which both Bridgwater and his mother were held by the
ton
acted as a restraining force—Miss Cora Downes would be offered more than one carte blanche.

She was breathless and flushed and bright-eyed when the set was over. Her bosom was heaving as she tried to replace the missing air in her lungs.

“Oh, that was wonderful,” she said. “Far more fun than any of the assemblies in Bath. There the dancers are mostly elderly, you know, and so the music is slower. Thank you so very much, Lord Francis. You are very kind.”

“Thank
you
,” he said, taking her arm on his sleeve and leading her back toward the duchess. “It was my honor and my pleasure, Miss Downes.”

“May I ask you something?” she said, looking sideways into his eyes. Her own were a dark gray, he saw. He had at first thought them to be black. “What is your
name
? I was woolgathering when his grace presented you to me—or perhaps I was still flustered over the fact that I had tripped over my own feet and would have disgraced myself utterly instead of only partially if you had not stepped smartly forward and grabbed me. I am
always
woolgathering when something important is being said. It drives my papa insane. It drove my governess to despair.”

“Kneller,” he said, repressing the urge to chuckle. “It is the family name of the Dukes of Fairhurst. My elder brother is the current holder of the title.”

“Oh,” she said with an openmouthed gasp, “you are the brother of a
duke
. I am so glad I did not know it when I danced with you.” She laughed.

There was a quality of merriment in her that was almost unladylike and was quite infectious, Lord Francis thought. He would like to draw the cork of any man who offered her carte blanche during what remained of the Season.

Perhaps he would take her under his wing, he thought suddenly. Bridgwater would undoubtedly be relieved and the duchess would surely not be displeased. As for himself, he had perhaps a great deal of a leftover life to kill. He had no wish to spend it pining away to a mere shadow of his former self over a woman who was now in Yorkshire with her new husband, doubtless proceeding with the pleasant business of living happily ever after.

Taking Miss Cora Downes under his wing would amuse him. And perhaps it would protect her from harm. Perhaps too he could steer toward her some likely candidate for matrimony. It might be diverting to become a matchmaker for the few weeks that remained of the Season. It would be a new role for him, one he had never even in his wildest imaginings thought of for himself. It was a feminine role, one his elder sisters delighted in. She had been trying to do it to him for so long that it was a testament to her endurance that she had not long ago lost faith in her powers.

It would be an amusing role to assume—if anything in life could ever again be amusing.

He returned Cora Downes to her place, stayed to make himself agreeable to the duchess and Lady Jane—Lady Elizabeth was promenading about the room on the arm of her future sister-in-law—waited until Corsham paused at his side with significant looks and throat-clearing, in the obvious hope of being presented to Miss Downes, performed that office, and had the satisfaction of watching her being led out for a quadrille while her
grace and Bridgwater were still marshaling their forces of prospective partners for the merchant’s daughter.

Corsham, Lord Francis thought in some satisfaction, was in possession of property and ten thousand a year. His mother was a draper’s daughter, his father a second son of a second son. Fortunately he had had a wealthy aunt who had doted on him and left him everything on her demise.

An eminently eligible match for Miss Cora Downes.

“My thanks, old chap,” his grace said at his elbow. “I owe you a favor. Fortunately the girl seems not quite vulgar, would you not agree?
Rustic
might be more the word. One can only hope she will improve under my mother’s guidance. Though one does hope too that she does not make a habit of tripping over her feet.” He grimaced.

Lord Francis chuckled. The sound seemed strange to his own ears. He wondered when he had last laughed.

HE
D
UCHESS OF
B
RIDGWATER HAD ALREADY PRONOUNCED
herself well satisfied. There was no question about her satisfaction with Elizabeth and Jane, of course. Elizabeth had moved almost immediately into the illustrious circle of her future in-laws and had stayed there. Jane had been rediscovered by last year’s admirers and had been discovered by several more, who had been properly presented to her by her brother. But then Jane, even apart from her beauty and youth and sweetness, was the daughter of a duke.

No, it was with Cora that her grace was really expressing satisfaction. Apart from the unfortunate fact that she had tripped over her feet at the sight of Lord Francis Kneller’s turquoise splendor, and that one heavy lock of her hair had fallen down about her shoulder during the third set, another round of vigorous country dances, and that she had trodden on her own hem at the end of the same set and ripped the stitching out of a stretch of it—apart from those slight mishaps, of which her grace made light, she had behaved quite becomingly. And up to and including the supper dance, she had had a partner for every set except the waltz, which she was not allowed to dance because certain dragons—the patronesses of Almack’s, apparently—had not yet given her the nod of approval. Which was all a parcel of nonsense,
as far as Cora was concerned, but her grace looked faintly alarmed and very slightly haughty when she mentioned the fact.

It seemed that Cora had taken well.

She took none of the credit to herself. The ladies who spoke with her—there were several—were friends either of her grace or of one of the girls. The gentlemen who danced with her were presented to her by either his grace or Lord Francis Kneller. All of them, she suspected, had had their arms twisted up behind their backs—even if only figuratively speaking—as an incentive to oblige her.

And some of the credit too, she had to admit, was due to the extraordinary story that was circulating. She was a great heroine, it seemed. She had saved the life of Lord George Munro’s son—the child was second in line to the Bridgwater title—at considerable risk to her own life. His grace was deeply in her debt. Everyone referred to the story. Everyone looked at her almost in awe—just as if she were someone special.

It was really rather embarrassing. Especially when she recalled how very foolishly stupid she had been to shriek out and plunge into the river the way she had. She had not been heroic at all—only brainless, as Edgar had pointed out afterward while she was mourning over the bedraggled remains of her bonnet. He had taken her and bought her a new one the following morning—before the duchess descended upon her and bore her away to find her a husband from among the ranks of the gentry as a reward for her heroism.

It had been a successful evening. Her grace said so and even Cora felt it. But the trouble was that the part of her that felt it the most acutely was her toes. She dared not take her slippers off to wiggle them or to assess them for damages. She needed no assessment of the eyes. She would be very surprised if there was not a blister on
every single toe. She could even feel blisters on toes that were not there. It was very difficult to sit through supper and smile and converse with her partner, Mr. Pandry, and the other people at her table—one of the ladies asked her repeated questions about dear little Henry and his behavior throughout his watery ordeal in the river at Bath—it was difficult to be sociable when all ten of her toes in addition to the ghost ones were screeching for her attention.

To dance after supper was an impossibility. To refuse to dance was an equal impossibility. Half of her mind dealt with the conversation at hand while the other half considered her dilemma. She was ashamed to admit the truth to her grace. A real lady, she rather suspected, would dance even if all ten of her toes were broken and a couple of ankles to boot. A real lady … She had never—before the incident of little Henry, that was—even considered the fact that she was not a real lady. She had been very satisfied with who she was. She still was satisfied. She had no wish to start pretending to be anything she was not. She was her papa’s daughter. Papa was not, according to strict definition, a gentleman. She loved her papa.

She told the duchess when they had returned to the ballroom that she needed to go to the ladies’ withdrawing room and that she might be gone a little while—words uttered with some blushing embarrassment. She declined the offer to be accompanied.

She really did intend to go to the ladies’ room, but she suddenly remembered from the time she had gone there with her grace earlier to have her hair pinned up again and her hem mended that it was crowded and noisy. If she sat there for any length of time the fact would surely be remarked upon. And she would feel the eyes of the maids stationed there upon her. She turned sharply instead
and walked out through the open French doors onto the balcony outside.

It was all but deserted. After the supper break, everyone was ready to dance or to play cards again, she guessed. She discovered a vacant chair behind a large and dense potted plant. She sank gratefully onto it and tried wiggling her toes. The attempt did not help at all. She would not have thought it possible for slippers to cause such pain, but she supposed it made sense that they did so when they were a size too small.

She looked carefully to both sides and even over her shoulder. There was no one in sight. Everyone was in the ballroom. The music had struck up again. She lifted one foot onto the opposite knee, bending her leg outward, and cradled her foot in both hands. For a short while she resisted further temptation. But it was too insistent. She pulled off her slipper and tossed it to the balcony beside her other foot. The freedom, the rush of coolness, even the pain was exquisite. She closed her eyes and sighed.

“Trouble?” a languid, almost bored voice asked.

She snapped to attention, still clutching her foot. And then she breathed out through puffed cheeks in noisy relief when she saw who it was. It was only Lord Francis Kneller. She would have been horribly mortified if it had been any other gentleman. Lord Francis seemed almost like a woman friend. Not that she meant the thought at all unkindly. After an evening of observing him—she had found her eyes following him about the ballroom—and occasionally exchanging a few words with him and dancing with him that once, she had come to believe that he was happy with who he was. As any person should be, she firmly believed.

“Oh, it is just you,” she said. Even so she edged down the hem of her gown, which had been up somewhere in
the region of her knee. “Sore feet is all. I have slunk out here, where I thought to remain unobserved.”

“Just sore?” he asked. “Or blistered?”