Page 11 of Counting on Love

Chapter Four

Although colloquially known as Lady Andini’s ball, in fact, the event was hosted by the Earl of Atherton and his wife. Lady Andini was his sister. The title was a courtesy. She had married an Italian aristocrat, who swept her off her feet, begat his heir, and then died in a boating accident. Lady Andini spent three years with her Italian in-laws before homesickness and other things brought her home. The grandparents claimed the child, which was the saddest, cruelest thing Georgiana could imagine. Lady Andini had visited often until Bonaparte made it impossible to do so. The poor woman must be devastated.

Nevertheless, there was the ball.

Seated together in the ducal carriage, Alice glowed with anticipation, Georgiana suppressed her nervous fidgets, and the duke and duchess smiled at the girls—and each other—fondly.

“You remember our first dance,” her father said, his hand on his wife’s knee. They made a handsome couple even now. Mama’s skin was unlined. Her figure had remained slender. Father was heavier than he looked in old family portraits but still had all of his hair. And that light in his eyes.

“Of course. You broke my toe.”

Alice’s eyes widened, but Georgiana laughed. She’d heard the story before. She’d heard most of their stories. She settled back to hear this one again. Their low voices murmured together, teasing, enjoying their memories. Enjoying each other.

This was what Georgiana wanted. This. Something incalculably rare in aristocratic marriages. Love. Passionate and companionate. They’d had three children together—Randolph, Georgiana, and Charles; and even after Randolph’s tragic death nearly a decade ago, their bond remained unbreakable. Even after twenty-five years together, her parents still cherished one another. It was not unusual to walk into a room and find them tête-à-tête, discussing something in the newspaper, or some bill Father favored, or some improvements they wished to make at Sayles.

Even more, they kissed one another. Regularly. She suspected whatever went on between a man and wife in private still did, since unlike many couples, they shared a bedroom. And a bed.

Only once, that she could recollect, had she heard them fight. She’d been eleven years old. A terrible age to be. It was two years after Randolph’s accident, and Mama was beginning, slowly, to emerge from mourning. Perhaps that was why the raised voices had made such an impression. Or perhaps it was because they had argued about her.

Looking back, it hadn’t been an argument. Merely a minor disagreement. Easily settled.

Georgiana forced her thoughts back to the present. To Lord Taverston. There was nothing wrong with the man. But there was something not right about him either. None of the men who had courted her had had that something right. And she felt rather grumpily resentful of her parents for making her expect that that something should be there.

Their carriage rolled into the long drive. The Athertons’ London home was located a short distance from St. James Square and had all the requisite flourishes to recommend it, more brick than marble, but there was some intricate plasterwork on the facade. The gardens in the back were extraordinary and would be even more beautiful when the weather warmed and Lady Atherton held her outdoor teas.

When it stopped, some distance from the steps leading to the front door, they exited the carriage and followed the line of visitors into the house. They were not early, but there was no chance she would miss the first set. There was plenty of time to visit the ladies’ drawing room to take care of necessities and make sure everything was in place after being squashed into a carriage. Jeanette had been sent on ahead with Mother’s Fabienne—French ladies’ maids were de rigeur—to enter through the servants’ door and wait in the drawing room with other ladies’ maids. Georgiana knew they would sit and gossip, perhaps partake of cake and tea brought to them there, and wait for their mistresses to require something of them. They would be dismissed sometime after midnight.

Jeanette would be waiting at home for the girls’ return. She’d help them out of their gowns, undo their hair, and see to it that the gowns were brushed, and any spots attended to. She’d be working long after her employers fell asleep and would rise before they woke. All that waiting. Imagine what Jeanette would think if she heard Georgiana complaining the ton’s entertainments were dull.

After they greeted their hosts, Father went off in one direction and the ladies in the other.

“I hope Jeanette can help me,” Alice murmured. “My garter twisted, and I fear I’m about to lose a stocking.”

“She’ll fix it,” Georgiana assured her as they climbed a spiraling set of stairs. “Jeanette can work wonders.” A part of the braidwork on her dress had folded in on itself, spoiling the optical effect, and the abigail had spent at least an hour last night steaming it back into shape.

“These are pretty, aren’t they?” Alice said, gesturing to the portraits that graced the walls in an echoing spiral. That was new. The paintings must have been moved from elsewhere. It was the most original portrait gallery she’d ever come across. But something was off. Disorienting. She found herself counting both steps and portraits as she climbed. Calculating. Yes, the numbers were wrong. They had been hung without the proper helical proportions. How lazy.

How irritating.

“Is something amiss?” Alice asked.

“No, nothing,” she said hurriedly, hoping Mama, just two steps ahead, had not heard the question. Alice didn’t understand Georgiana’s fascination with mathematics but didn’t judge her for it the way Mama did. Of course, Alice had quirks of her own—reading newspapers in their entirety and political pamphlets from cover to cover, but not calculations of sums or observing mathematical elements in ordinary things. “It’s only that one cannot stop and gaze upon the pictures as one can in a regular hall.”

Alice giggled and pointed to one. “Maybe that’s the point.”

The elderly gentleman in a soldier’s redcoat and powdered wig had a nose the shape of an anvil and was nearly the size of one. It broke the spell. Georgiana laughed too.

They found the drawing room where they straightened their garments. Georgiana thought Mama would shoo them off, but no. She followed them back down to the ballroom, where Father joined them. Mama looked about the rapidly filling room, then nodded grimly.

“I see Viscount Haslet, Alice. He’s a reliable sort. But far too old for you, I think.”

“He was just being kind, Your Grace. I have no expectations in that direction.”

Mama’s expression softened. Then she narrowed her eyes and continued searching.

Father said, “I don’t see Lord Taverston yet. Ah, wait. There he is. Bothering Sir Plodgett.” A strange look of amusement flitted over his face. “I’d like to have heard what he said.”

“What? Why?” Sir Plodgett was not in their set.