The Renshaw ball was every bit the crush Lady Worsted had promised. From her position with the matrons and wallflowers, Amelia happily watched all of the dancers twirling about the floor in all of their finery. She had never seen so many different shades of silk in one place, nor so many feathers. Lady Worsted was sporting a vivid custard-coloured ostrich concoction that added at least ten inches to her height. And it was not the most impressive headdress in the room. That feat went to the hostess herself. Lady Renshaw sprouted so many plumes that it might have been easier just to sit a peacock on her head and be done with it. Every time she turned, the woman inadvertently tickled someone else’s nose with it.
And the dancing! The tiny, shallow part of her that was still aristocratic envied all of the beautiful gowns and the way that they drew attention to the young ladies wearing them. She marvelled at the way they moved in unison as they gracefully performed all manner of intricate steps. As a child, her mother had taught her some of them, so Amelia recognised the cotillion and a few of the country dances, but she had no idea what was currently being performed on the floor. Her eye kept wandering to the Duke and his most recent partner, Lady Priscilla. He performed the steps exceptionally well, managing to look graceful yet entirely masculine. Each time he and Priscilla came together they exchanged pleasantries. Priscilla hung on his every word. The Duke looked bored.
Amelia supposed that being so adored must become wearing. From the moment they had all arrived in the ballroom, a veritable swarm of brightly coloured young ladies had gravitated towards him, eyelashes fluttering and fans flapping, and he had politely, if a little indifferently, greeted them all in the same way. Even the Potentials. Except he had made a point of adding his name to each of their dance cards. Not that she wanted him to, nor was she jealous, but it had not occurred to him to scratch his name on Amelia’s empty card, even for the sake of politeness. But then again, why would he? She was little better than a servant and, as far as he knew, there was nothing aristocratic about her. He was also probably still sulking over her comments at the reading salon earlier in the week, and they had scarcely exchanged more than two words since that night.
The orchestra struck up the highly anticipated first chords of the waltz and the dancers hurried to reach their new partners. His Royal Highness the Duke of Pomposity bowed to Lady Priscilla and escorted her to her mother and then began to make his way towards their group slowly.
‘Miss Mansfield, would you do this old man a favour and take him for a spin around the dance floor?’ Sir George had already taken her hand as if it were a foregone conclusion that she would accept him.
‘I can’t waltz,’ she admitted quietly. ‘I have never been taught it.’
‘If you can count to three, then you can waltz. I taught Bennett to waltz in five minutes flat. It is not a complicated dance. Besides, it is the gentleman’s duty to lead. Any mistakes will be immediately attributed to me and every girl should waltz at her first ball.’ As they were already at the edge of the dance floor, further argument was futile and Amelia was secretly delighted to have been asked to dance at least once, even if her partner was old enough to be her father and only asking her to be kind.
Sir George surreptitiously positioned her arms correctly and began to count the rhythm as he swayed her from side to side. ‘One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. That’s it, my dear; now we shall attempt a slow turn.’ He continued his helpful whispered count while Amelia picked up the steps and, before she knew it, she was gliding around the floor almost as skilfully as the others.
‘This is easy!’ She could not prevent herself from beaming at him. ‘You are an excellent teacher, Sir George. I almost feel graceful.’
‘And you make me the envy of all of the other gentlemen here. Already I can see that a few young men have stolen a sneaky glance at you, all wondering who you are and if you are taken.’
She rolled her eyes at his silly comments. ‘I am a lady’s companion, Sir George, and not in the league of all of these beautiful young ladies. But your compliment is very well received regardless.’
‘Nonsense. Once we have finished, I predict that all the young bucks will be queuing up to dance with you and then I shall be left to watch with Her Grace and Augusta.’ He pretended to find that prospect dire, but he had not left the ladies’ sides all evening, save this one dance.
‘Do you mind if I ask a personal question?’
He grinned wolfishly in response and Amelia realised he must have been quite irresistible in his prime. ‘Ask away, my dear.’
‘Why did you never marry? As the brother of a duke, you must have been quite eligible.’
‘Ah—’ he sighed as he twirled her ‘—I came close once, but I was enjoying the bachelor lifestyle too much. I was quite a rake in my day.’ Amelia could well believe that. Even now, with his hair grey and a slight paunch, he was still a very distinguished-looking gentleman. A lot like his nephew in many ways—tall, blue-eyed, square-jawed—although nowhere near as irritating. ‘When my brother died, while dear Bennett was still so young, I stepped into the breach as a male guardian of sorts and I have stayed that way ever since. They are my family now. Bennett is like my own son.’ His eyes briefly flicked warmly towards the Dowager and Amelia realised that it was perhaps not onlydearBennett who made him stay. ‘It is an odd arrangement, but one that suits us well enough.’
* * *
Bennett dispassionately watched his uncle lead Miss Mansfield around the floor. At least he hoped he did. Inside, he found himself inexplicably jealous of the old man. They were laughing and chatting so easily, her dark eyes locked intently on his uncle’s as if she were hanging on his every word. As if she were inordinately charmed and impressed by the old scoundrel. His uncle was also revelling in her attention, judging by the rapt expression on his face. The old flirt was preening like a cockerel in a yard full of chickens.
‘She is doing frightfully well for her first attempt at waltzing, isn’t she, Bennett?’
A fresh bolt of jealousy surged through him. Her first waltz! Somehow that made it all worse. ‘Yes, indeed, Aunt Augusta. Miss Mansfield is cutting quite the dash.’
Even in the simple evening gown she was stunning. In fact, the lack of jewels or other unnecessary accoutrements enhanced her fine features. Her brown eyes sparkled under the chandeliers; the candlelight also picked out flecks of copper and hints of deep auburn in her unfussy hairstyle. The overall effect made her seem like a rare exotic bloom in a garden full of common cottage flowers.
Perhaps he should have asked her to dance?
Initially he had considered it but had heard his father’s cautions in his head.‘Good breeding is essential, Bennett, when you come to choose your wife. Strong aristocratic bloodlines, boy. We cannot afford to sully our ancient family name with anything less.’So he had ignored his desire to know how her compact but curvy body would feel in his arms and had danced with all of the same women he had danced with all year, desperately trying to feel the same sort of lust for one of them and failing miserably. His recently unpredictable groin area had remained decisively uninspired throughout each of his dances with the Potentials—yet now it was awake again because he was watchingher. Feeling a bit like Adam in the Garden of Eden, Bennett had to acknowledge that Miss Mansfield was his forbidden fruit. A companion. With an acid tongue. From Cheapside.Cheap. Side.
Perhaps if he repeated those things often enough he might stop feeling the overwhelming urge to kiss her. He knew exactly what his father would say about his attraction to her! He would tell him not to throw away all of his years of hard work on a woman. And while Bennett might be tempted to throw away all of his years of hard work, he could never toss away his father’s. That his father had been denied the high office he’d deserved through no fault of his own, after dedicating so many years of service to the nation, was a travesty. He had promised to continue his father’s legacy and he could not let an inappropriate and inconvenient attraction stand in the way of that debt.
Out of the corner of his eye he spied Lady Cecily and her mother heading towards him with some purpose. For some reason, that irritated him more than seeing his uncle dancing with Miss Mansfield. A few weeks ago, he had been convinced that she was standing out as the most suitable of all the Potentials. Since the reading salon, he had begun to see her in a different light altogether. Lady Cecily was proving herself to be quite pushy, perhaps even calculated, in her pursuit of him and he was beginning to think that he did not want his future wife to be quite so...determined.
In that moment he made the sudden decision to escape. Not only did he have no desire to converse further with Cecily, he had no intention of continuing to jealously watch his uncle instruct Miss Mansfield in her first waltz. He darted into the crowd and strode quickly towards the hallway. It would be at least another hour before Lovett rescued him, so he might as well find somewhere quiet where he could hide for a while.
* * *
Sir George escorted her back to the Dowager, who was in deep conversation with another woman whom Amelia did not recognise. Lady Worsted was nowhere to be seen.
‘This is my sister’s companion, Miss Mansfield. Amelia, may I introduce the Viscountess of Bray?’
Amelia managed a polite curtsey and even the hint of a smile. However, it proved impossible to consider speaking when all of the air had been knocked from her lungs and her ribcage felt as if it were being squeezed in a vice. Fortunately, as a companion, the lady in question gave her little more than a superficial glance before she carried on talking as if Amelia was of no consequence. It was just as well. Amelia might have charged at her and clawed her with her nails if she had even attempted to engage her in conversation. Instead, she stood there silently, her mood and the ball now irrevocably spoiled while she fought to control the turmoil of painful emotions that had suddenly been unleashed.
