Page 51 of The Cornish Mermaid

Kit’s mother wore a deep aquamarine gown, and her hair was arranged formally in a less girlish style. But she was still a very beautiful woman, with a figure, aided of course by stays, many a younger woman would envy.

Lady Ormonde smiled with a new warmth, which surprised Morvoren. “I feel very proud of my two beautiful girls,” she said, encompassing Morvoren along with Ysella. “How prettily Kit’s necklace sets off the blue of your eyes, Morvoren. Really quite remarkable. Come along, girls. Let us get into the carriage.”

The carriage waiting on the drive came equipped, this time, with not just the driver, James, whom they’d had before, now dressed in a livery worthy of the driver of Cinderella’s coach, but now also two other liveried and bewigged worthies. Both of these were to perch on the back of the vehicle while it was in motion. One of these two was waiting with the step down and the door open.

Kit handed his ladies one at a time into the carriage then climbed in himself, settling on the backward facing seat beside his mother, who was already fanning herself with her prettily decorated chicken-skin fan. “I declare,” she said. “It’s too warm in here by far. The evening will be a hot one, I fear. I do hope there isn’t a storm brewing.”

Kit must have been as hot or hotter than they were, in his tight-fitting black silk coat and with his stock fastened up under his chin. However, at least he didn’t have to wear stays underneath all that lot. Morvoren tried not to fidget, but she was feeling as hot as Lady Ormonde. Which reminded her that she, too, had a fan, so she took it from her borrowed reticule and employed it to waft some cooler air onto her face. It wouldn’t do to arrive at the ball red-faced and sweaty.

The lackey closed the door and lifted the step, and the carriage rocked as he jumped up to join his fellow on the back. In a moment, they were underway, rattling over the graveled drive and swaying a little from side to side, but not sufficiently to give Morvoren the motion sickness she’d experienced in the mail coach. The horses seemed to be sticking to a steady trot, so it would take over an hour to get to the ball. With a refreshing breeze now wafting in through the open windows on either side, Morvoren settled back in her seat and stared out at the passing twilit countryside. All thoughts of lust evaporated to be replaced with the familiar knotting anxiety that she was destined to inevitably do something wrong and make a fool of herself that night.

Now she was more used to traveling by horsepower, the journey passed very quickly. All too soon, they were rolling up a wide driveway toward the looming shape of not a castle but a huge country house.

Morvoren peered out of the window to stare as the driveway curved around, affording an excellent view of the brightly illuminated edifice.

“Denby Castle,” Kit said, his voice curt, as though this might be somewhere he wasn’t fond of.

“It doesn’t look much like a castle.”

He nodded, his face now just a pale blur in the dark interior of the carriage. “There was a proper castle here once, but it’s long gone now. If you were to take a walk in the grounds, you’d come across the bare bones that are all that remain of it now.” He paused, and cleared his throat.

Why did she get the impression that those ruins held some bad memory for him? That Denby was not a place he was fond of?

He went on. “The house that stands here now is scarcely more than a hundred and fifty years old I believe. Nothing like as old as Ormonde.”

The coach swung around in a wide arc and came to a halt on an expanse of pale gravel in front of the house. Lanterns, burning on tall poles every ten yards or so, liberally illuminated the whole front façade of the house, their flickering light sending shadows leaping in every direction across the driveway.

The carriage rocked as one of the lackeys jumped down to open the doors and let down the step.

Kit descended first, then handed his ladies down. It seemed they’d arrived at a popular time, for other carriages were disgorging sumptuously clad ladies and austere looking gentlemen. Fans fluttered, feathered headdresses bobbed, and laughter rose toward the dark sky.

Kit held out his arm to his mother and she took it, deploying her fan against the warmth of the evening. Ysella linked her arm through Morvoren’s. “Come along,” she whispered, suddenly sounding as nervous as Morvoren felt. “We must keep close to Mama, or she’ll be angry. She’ll want to keep a good eye on which gentlemen we dance with.”

Even more lanterns lit the steps as brightly as if it were full daylight. As they climbed the steps, Morvoren took a closer look at some of the other guests: women like bright butterflies in their many-hued gowns, and among the somber black and navy coats of men like Kit, a few army officers, their rich, red military uniforms standing out like exotic birds of paradise.

She swallowed down her fears. She was at a real Regency ball. Her, a girl more used to listening to heavy metal, rhythm and blues, or maybe a bit of country and western. How scary was this? Would she manage to acquit herself without mishap? No. She mustn’t think like that. She could do it. She had to. She couldn’t let down Lady Ormonde, or Ysella, and certainly not Kit.

She looked at his upright, slim-hipped figure just in front and drew in a shaky breath. She could do it for him.

Ysella’s arm linked through hers tightened. It was good to know she wasn’t the only nervous one.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Morvoren

Music and light spilled down the steps from Denby Castle’s enormous double front doors. Both stood wide open to welcome in the chattering guests, a splendidly liveried footman in a powdered wig to either side.

Arm in arm with Ysella, Morvoren approached the haughty gaze of these footmen, trembling in her dainty silk shoes lest they spot her for an imposter. But they let her pass unchallenged, and, feeling very much like Cinderella, she found herself standing open-mouthed just inside an enormous hallway, staring at a wide staircase that rose to a galleried landing high above her head. Scores of imposing oil paintings that were probably by old masters hung on the walls of hall and staircase alike, all their carefully executed eyes fixed accusingly on her. Or so it felt.

“The Viscount Ormonde, Lady Ormonde, the Honorable Ysella Carlyon and Miss Morvoren Lucas,” boomed another liveried man. Heads turned, and hot color suffused Morvoren’s face. She hadn’t been expecting a formal announcement like this, and now it felt as though every human eye in the wide hall, as well as those of the paintings, were on her, weighing and measuring, and finding her wanting.

For a house that possessed no electricity, the interior of Denby blazed with light from what might have been a thousand candles burning in chandeliers and on branched candelabras in wall alcoves, throwing a warm, golden glow over everything.

People milled everywhere, chattering gaily. Gentlemen of all ages and sizes, dressed for the most part like Kit, mingled with a few more soldiers in their bright red dress uniforms. Ladies stood about everywhere in the most gorgeous of gowns, either on the arm of one of the male guests, or in small groups with their heads together, fanning their pink cheeks and laughing. Some were old ladies with heavily powdered faces and long feathers waving from their elaborate hairstyles, others were of middle-years with the proportions of galleons in full sail, attended by slender young women like Ysella, under what must be strict chaperonage.

Ysella’s hold on Morvoren’s arm tightened again. “Oh, just look at all the beautiful gowns. And isn’t that Henry Lockhart over there looking so handsome in his regimentals, standing with my dear Caroline?” She beamed at Morvoren. “I must introduce you to Caro. You’ll adore her, just as I do, I’m sure.”

So that was Caroline Fairfield, the young lady Kit’s mother had lined up for him. Morvoren considered her with interest. A tall young woman with light brown hair and an intelligent face, she had been engaged in conversation with a young man in the red uniform of an officer, but right now seemed to have noticed the arrival of the party from Ormonde.