‘Thank you. Will you honour me with the next dance?’
She placed her gloved hand on his, and they joined the nearest set just before the musicians launched into a lively air. Cecilia had already heard that it was not the custom here for a lady to call the figures which everyone else must follow; Mr Marjoram seemed to serve that function, and in this dance, at least, he was keeping it simple, with country steps that everyone could manage, all of which the Constantine sisters had learned in childhood, as probably had everyone else of all ranks. ‘I presume there is to be no waltzing tonight,’ she said, as the figure brought her and the Major together, and he twirled her under his raised arm.
‘No, that would be far too modern and shocking for Debenbridge,’ he responded. ‘Marjoram is a good fellow, for all his irritating bluster, and he suits his choices to his audience.’ When she returned to him again, he said with a little smile, ‘I might almost suspect him of keeping this set childishly simple because he sees that I am dancing, and for the first time in years. Perhaps he colluded with my mother; I wouldn’t be at all surprised.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘I would have minded enormously just a few weeks ago, consumed as I was with self-pity and hurt pride. Now I don’t.’
She looked up at him. ‘Why not?’
‘Because I am dancing with you.’
There was a light in his eyes that she thought she had not seen there before – but then, most of their recent encounters had taken place at night, and in the shadows. She had seen desire there, and in every lineament of his face, she had seen irritation, at first, and pain, then later, interest and even amusement. But this tenderness was new. She felt her heart beating faster, but did not have time to consider exactly what it might mean, and what answering feelings it called up in her. The constant movement of the dance meant that she was not obliged to give him a response if she did not choose to, and he did not press her for one.
She was not to be granted leisure to think on her discovery, though; Lord Pallant was waiting for her as soon as the set finished. Cecilia at least could tell from the Major’s mask-like expression that he had no wish whatsoever to surrender her hand to this man. But unless he planned to fall to brawling here in front of everyone, he had no choice, and nor did she. Alistair stepped aside, unsmiling, and was able to secure Bea as his next partner. At least they’d all be in the same set.
Honesty compelled her to admit that the Baron was an excellent dancer; most people would have considered him better than the Major. He too was elegantly dressed, and his dark evening clothes set off his blond good looks to perfection. As they danced, he was smiling down at her in a manner that he no doubt considered charming, and she hated it.
‘I hope you are quite recovered from your shock the other day,’ he said solicitously.
He knew she was; they’d had this conversation already when he’d called again with his sister and brother on Wednesday afternoon, and she had in the end been obliged to admit herself restored to health and receive him. On that occasion, the Pallant men had tried very hard to tempt the sisters out for a turn about the garden with them, which would no doubt have been a prelude to separation into couples, which might have suited Bea but would not have pleased Cecilia or Bianca in the slightest. Cecilia had refused, saying that it was far too cold outside, which was possibly the most ridiculous opinion she’d ever advanced in her life, since at present, it was unseasonably warm for May and there was not a cloud in the sky, nor a breath of wind. His Lordship’s mouth had tightened disagreeably at her words, and he’d looked at her as if he wanted to shake some sense into her silly head. He’d tried only a little more persuasion – without going so far as to tell her outright that she was mistaken – but had soon been forced to admit defeat in the face of her stubborn and irrational resistance.
His making a dead set for her again tonight showed that he still wanted to woo her, despite the fact that in his company, she’d consistently shown herself to be a complete ninnyhammer with an enormous fund of entirely wrong-headed opinions and a penchant for violent fits of the vapours and self-indulgent invalidism. And she was only two and twenty and in excellent health; imagine what she’d be like when she was forty or fifty and really had something to complain about. She might serve as a warning of the dangers of excessive sensibility allied with negligible intelligence, and no rational man would want such a stupid creature for his life’s partner. But then, she had five and forty thousand pounds, which apparently rendered the most ridiculous things she said both fascinating and witty.
He was plainly determined to spend this evening at her side, which looked set to ruin all pleasure in it for her, giving her no leisure to think about anything more agreeable; even when she danced with someone else, when she left the floor, she always found him there, hovering. As time passed, she found it harder and harder not to show her distaste for his persistence openly on her face. Surely he could not imagine she felt flattered? But perhaps he was so full of his own conceit that he simply could not conceive that any woman would not eventually fall at his feet in gratitude.
Mrs Bartrum provided a temporary escape by presenting her son Rory to Cecilia as her next prospective partner; the Major was to dance that particular Highland reel with Bianca, and they naturally all stood together chatting amiably when it ended. Rory was very like his brother, in height and colouring, but of a much less robust build, no doubt because he had spent his youth studying rather than soldiering. He seemed a serious young man, apart from when he was running wild in the reel with Bianca or one of the other more impetuous young women; the dancers were already beginning to separate by set into crazy youth versus more restrained and older participants. Cecilia wondered whether the Major had once been one of the mad, exuberant young dancers, and whether he missed that lost part of his life now if he had.
Rory was friendly and open, without any suggestion that he wished to fix his interest with a Miss Constantine, or indeed anyone else. Marriage was out of the question for him, of course, unless he wanted to lose his prestigious academic position and his home. He didn’t sound very much like a sober Cambridge Fellow, though, when he said in a low tone, ‘Why is that oily creature Oliver Pallant always at my heel whenever I turn around, and if it’s not him, it’s his fool of a brother? If they get any closer, I’ll suspect them of wanting to pick my pocket.’
‘Lord Pallant is wooing Miss Cecilia,’ the Major told him quietly, ‘and Sebastian is wooing Miss Bianca. You must be literally the last person in the room to have noticed this, including people in their dotage who don’t know what year it is or who’s the current monarch; I daresay it’s not the sort of thing that goes on in the lofty halls of academia, and that’s why it has completely escaped your scholarly notice.’
‘It isn’t something that happens in my circles in Cambridge, and I’m glad it isn’t,’ Rory muttered, apparently used to this brotherly teasing. ‘I gather that their attentions aren’t welcome, ladies? Which can hardly be a surprise to me.’
‘If you can think of a way to make them stop, sir, I wish you’d tell us,’ Bianca said flatly. ‘We can’t, heaven knows. Cecilia has been behaving as if she isn’t entirely right in the head for days now, and even that doesn’t put Lord Pallant off.’
‘Set about the rumour we’ve lost all our fortunes on Change –thatwould make them stop,’ Cecilia told her acidly. ‘I dare you to do it.’
A welcome distraction occurred: a new group of people entered with a great deal of noise and bustle, and the throng appeared to part before them, like the Red Sea for Moses.
‘Oh, Lord,’ the Major said ruefully. ‘Lady Synett is here, with a group of hangers-on, come to condescend to the rustics. You haven’t met her before. She’s the one in the middle who looks like a monkey from a menagerie that’s somehow got loose in the Princess of Wales’s wardrobe.’
Cecilia was obliged to bite her lip hard to prevent from laughing. The new arrivals were all very splendidly dressed, far too much so for the informal occasion. The ladies were in silks, feathers and dripping with diamonds, and Lady Synett herself was done up in garish purple and yellow, topped by a turban that supported tall, nodding plumes, quite as if she were at Court. Here, plainly, was the fashion-plate Mrs Bardwell chose to follow.
The Viscountess was tiny and wizened, her face heavily painted in the fashion of thirty years ago, and there was no denying that the Major’s uncivil simian comparison had some truth in it.
‘I wouldn’t criticise her appearance,’ he whispered close to Cecilia’s ear, ‘or anyone’s, for that matter, if she wasn’t… But you’ll soon see what she is. She’s coming over. You are about to be greatly honoured; I hope you are duly sensible of the fact.’
The Constantines dropped into the deep curtseys that were clearly expected of them, and Lady Synett said imperiously, ‘Mrs Bartrum, please present these young ladies to me instantly, and to my son. Lord Synett and I desire to know them.’
Mrs Bartrum performed the introductions, and Cecilia found herself surveyed thoroughly up and down through a jewelled quizzing glass, as did Bianca. Her Ladyship smiled graciously, and said, in penetrating tones, ‘I believe we share some acquaintances in common – no, rather more than that. How is your sister, the dear Duchess? I last had the pleasure of seeing her at my close friend Lord Granville’s house, just before her second marriage, and then again at Court, last year, when she was presented to Her Majesty. On the first occasion, I believe Mr Brummell proposed marriage to her quite publicly; it caused a great deal of vulgar comment. But she had the sense to refuse him and take Ventris, I was glad to hear. I hope he is quite well, and the sweet children?’ She then turned to the lady at her side and said, in slightly lower but still perfectly audible accents, ‘Very handsome man, Ventris. Terrible reputation with women. Butnota traitor or a murderer, apparently, so still received everywhere. Honoured by the Regent, not that that signifies anything. Huge estate in Yorkshire.’
Bianca and Cecilia stood slightly stunned under this perfect barrage of name-dropping and highly indiscreet gossip, but after a moment or two, Cecilia recovered herself somewhat and replied rather at hazard, ‘My sister Viola and her family are very well, thank you, ma’am. They are not in London at present; the Duke says that no business can be done in the Lords or anywhere else, with everyone in such an uproar about the situation on the Continent and so many baseless rumours flying about.’
‘Indeed,’ Her Ladyship responded majestically. ‘I have myself been accused of reckless folly in travelling to the east coast when a French invasion might happen at any moment, but I said, no, I will never neglect my duty to my tenants, no matter what the risk.’ She looked about her, as if expecting praise for her courage; her entourage all murmured appreciatively.
‘As to that, ma’am, Bonaparte would have to overcome Wellington and the whole Allied army in order to even think of invading, and since he has never done so before, it seems most unlikely that he will now,’ the Major said levelly. ‘I believe there is no need for excessive apprehension, therefore. Be assured that our shores are well guarded, in any event.’
