Читать книгу No Conventional Miss - Eleanor Webster - Страница 12

Chapter Three

‘At last!’ Imogene said. ‘Our first grand ball!’

The sisters stood before the looking glass in Rilla’s bedchamber, under strict instructions from Heloise to touch nothing.

Rilla stared at her reflection with a peculiar feeling of disbelief.

It was her, of course. Yet she looked so different.

Tentatively, Rilla rubbed her hand across the expanse of skin exposed by the low neckline and watched the image do so too. The neckline, the lightness of the muslin, the way if fell loosely about her waist and hips gave her a feeling of nakedness which was both disconcerting and exciting all at once.

Of course, Rilla knew she was too tall and her movements too brisk but, despite this, she looked...good.

Well, better than she would have supposed and quite different from a girl who habitually fell out of trees.

Indeed, it would be satisfying to have Wyburn see that she did not always gallop or do outlandish things.

Not that she particularly cared what Wyburn thought.

Abruptly, Rilla shifted her gaze to her sister. Now Imogene was truly beautiful—exquisite in a light blue gown with pearls encircling her throat.

And so like their mother.

Rilla had forgotten how beautiful her mother had looked before her last illness. She remembered her now—taller than Imogene, but with that delicate pale beauty. She remembered also how her father would even abandon his Greeks and Romans to escort her. He would complain, of course, saying he was trussed up like a Christmas goose, but his gaze would fix on their mother, the love evident.

What would it be like to be loved like that?

For a fleeting, disturbing second, the image of the Viscount Wyburn flickered before her inner eye.

Rilla pushed this aside. She would do better to focus on her sister who, Rilla realised, was looking a bit too ethereal.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Nervous,’ Imogene admitted. ‘I fear I will forget all Mr Arnold’s instructions and fall over my feet.’

Mr Arnold was their dance instructor, a portly gentleman with plump puce-coloured cheeks.

‘You have never fallen over your feet in your life,’ Rilla said.

‘I have never gone to a dance of this size and I have never felt so nervous. Besides, Mr Arnold said it was so important that a débutante is proficient in all the steps.’

‘Mr Arnold can’t even see his feet and I am certain he wears a corset so I refuse to take his word as law.’

‘A lady is not supposed to discuss a gentleman’s undergarments.’

‘Then I will resist the temptation to discuss undergarments tonight,’ Rilla said, putting an arm about her sister’s shoulders.

Imogene smiled wanly. She looked so young and vulnerable, her eyes large within her heart-shaped face. It reminded Rilla of their childhood when the two years between them had been a lifetime.

‘Everyone will be enchanted by you,’ Rilla said gently. ‘Why wouldn’t they be? You’re beautiful and witty.’

‘I feel like I did at Lady Lockhart’s piano recital when I was ten.’

‘You played perfectly. I was the one who ruined everything by dropping a spider down Jack St John’s collar. You were meant for this night.’

‘You are good for me,’ Imogene said. ‘Mother always knew what to say at times like this.’

Rilla nodded, touching the gold locket about her neck. It was smooth and warmed by her skin. ‘I miss her, too.’

‘This was her dream for us.’

‘For you. She wanted you to have a choice and to find someone you could love.’

‘She met Father during her first Season.’ Imogene carefully rearranged one of the blonde curls framing her face. ‘Rilla?’

‘Hmm?’

‘When...when you have your feelings, do you ever see her?’

Rilla stilled, except for her fingers, which continued to twist the thin gold chain at her neck. Imogene seldom spoke of her ‘moments’ and never without fear or loathing. ‘No.’

Imogene nodded, turning to pick up her reticule.

‘But,’ Rilla added softly, ‘I think that is good. I think it means she is at peace.’

Imogene shivered. ‘I wish you had grown out of your moments like we all hoped. Then you could fall in love and marry. ‘

‘I am much too ornery to marry, even if I did not fear that any husband might commit me to Bedlam. Besides,’ Rilla added, determined to lighten the mood. ‘I have my Greeks and butter churn for company.’

‘Do not discuss Greeks or your churn tonight.’

‘No Greeks, churns or undergarments. I will discuss only Romans and my automated cake mixer. Come on.’ Rilla swung her arm around her sister’s waist. ‘Enough serious talk. Your dream awaits. And you are going to be fabulous.’

* * *

Three hours later, Rilla stood in the Thorntons’ ballroom. Dancing required more stamina than tree climbing. Her feet hurt, her head pounded and her face ached from smiling.

Although she was enjoying the dance. It was rather wonderful, like entering a separate world of golden light, music and magic—Oberon’s palace, peopled with fairies.

And there she had no shortage of partners. Indeed, she had only sat out two dances and had not yet chatted with any of her new London acquaintances or, more importantly, her neighbour and best friend Julie St John, freshly arrived from the country.

Perhaps she could find her now. Rilla scanned the ballroom. A familiar face would be so reassuring. Plus Julie had been out for three Seasons and would doubtless have all manner of suggestions. Hopefully, one of which might include a cure for blisters.

And then she saw him.

Wyburn.

All thoughts of Julie scattered from her mind.

Wyburn stood a few feet from the entrance. Her body stiffened and she knew, in that second, she had been unconsciously waiting for him. She felt a peculiar mix of hot and cold, and heard the quickened thump of her heart.

His very darkness made him different.

He stood tall, surveying the ballroom with an indolent gaze. Dark hair, dark straight brows and dark jacket made the others seem overdressed like brightly costumed actors.

She touched her hair. Then dropped her hand. She refused to primp. She would not even acknowledge that peculiar bubble of pleasure that he would see her here and in this dress.

But gracious, it was hot. She fanned herself. He had moved from the step and was now chatting with several gentlemen. Lady Wyburn had stated that he would ask both herself and Imogene to dance, as they were her protégées.

Except Rilla didn’t want to dance with him. She hadn’t seen him since Rotten Row and, as always, he made her feel like she had two left feet.

And yet to not dance with him would also be peculiarly dampening to the spirits.

She frowned. Since when had she become such a ninnyhammer? A person able to understand the laws of physics should certainly be capable of deciding with whom she wanted to dance.

Perhaps she should consider a suitable design for an automated fan which might be suspended from the ceiling—a much better use of brain power than the tracking of Lord Wyburn’s movements.

Not that he seemed in any great hurry to perform his duty towards his stepmother’s protégées. He was now escorting a large young lady in pink silk to the dance floor.

He’d likely regret that choice. The lady in pink did not appear light on her feet.

And then, in that split second of amused derision, it came.

The horrid, familiar, unwanted cold struck. It spread from the centre of her body down into her limbs. The candelabra and brightly coloured dancers dimmed. The purple-and-pink bouquets swirled and the music muted, as though coming from some great distance.

In its stead she heard a soft, sad whisper.

‘Help him.’

Rilla twisted left and right, but saw only the rubber plant and the blank wall behind it. Goosebumps prickled. Her hand tightened on her fan so that its hard edges pressed almost painfully against her palm.

I will not faint. Or cause a scene. Not here. Not now.

The words repeated in her mind like a mantra or the thumping of indigenous drums. I will not faint. I will not faint.

‘Rilla! Are you all right?’

A tall figure in ruffled green stood before her.

‘Julie,’ Rilla said, her voice oddly distant to her own ears.

‘Are you ill?’

The sweet cloying scent of lavender filled her nostrils.

‘Lavender. I smell— Are you—wearing—lavender?’ she asked, the simple question difficult to phrase.

‘No, I don’t like the smell. But, Rilla, what is it? You look awful.’

‘Fine. Really.’

Rilla had fought this before. She knew how to do it. She knew she must root herself in this hot, overcrowded room. She must focus on Julie and her frilly green dress. She must press her palm hard against the edge of her fan. She must escape the scent of lavender and immerse herself in the smell of flowers and sweat and food from the buffet.

She must ignore the man on the dance floor who was so impossible to ignore.

She exhaled in a slow whoosh.

‘It is the heat,’ Julie said.

‘Yes,’ Rilla said, disregarding the goosebumps still prickling her arms.

‘You will get used to it. I have. This is my fourth Season.’

‘When did you get into town?’ Rilla managed to ask, ludicrously proud to have said the simple sentence without pause or stammer.

‘Only two days ago. Mother wants to keep our costs to the minimum, you know.’

‘And how is she? Your mother, I mean?’

Julie shrugged with a rustle of fabric. ‘Dragging every unmarried man under a hundred to meet me. I’m a disappointment, although I’d likely do better if I did not resemble a wilted lettuce.’

‘You look lovely.’

‘For a lettuce.’

‘But never a wilted one,’ Rilla said and even smiled.

She took her friend’s hands, glad of the human contact, the reassuring pressure of Julie’s finger and the clean, wholesome talcum scent of her. ‘I am so happy you are here.’

‘And I you.’ Julie paused, looking towards the wide sweeping staircase which descended into the ballroom. ‘Gracious, he’s here too. We could have a schoolroom reunion.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Jack.’

Dislike knotted her stomach as Rilla saw a familiar young blond gentleman descend the staircase, his expression one of cynical indolence.

‘Roving for an heiress, I would guess. He needs one. Is he deigning to acknowledge us?’ Julie asked.

‘Apparently.’ Rilla watched the man’s approach.

Jack St John, Earl of Lockhart, looked well enough. His clothes were well cut, his movements easy. Yet she felt herself cringe, edging towards the rubber plant.

‘My dear sister and Miss Gibson.’ He made his bow.

‘Lord Lockhart.’

‘Miss Gibson, I did not know you and your sister were coming for the Season. I hope you are enjoying the evening and that it has been convivial.’

The earl gave the last word peculiar emphasis, rolling it in his mouth.

An emotion, close to fear, twisted through Rilla’s body, although his words were innocuous enough. ‘Everyone is very pleasant,’ she said.

‘Ah, yes, the ton can be delightful, but then the mere whisper of a rumour can make it cruel.’ He smiled. His face was pale and, in stark contrast, his lips looked too red for a man.

Rilla swallowed. The fear grew. Her palms felt clammy within her gloves.

‘Jack, don’t say you’ve done something scandalous?’ Julie asked, worry lacing her tone.

‘Not at all.’ His smile widened. ‘And Miss Gibson is fortunate that she has such an admirable character she need never fear rumours or odd tales.’

Did he linger on that word ‘odd’ like a man tasting brandy or was it her imagination?

But before Rilla could formulate a response, the earl made his bow and left. Rilla swallowed. The heat, the dancers, the music pressed in on her.

Julie touched her arm. ‘You’ve gone quite pale again. Don’t worry about Jack. He probably remembers the goat.’

‘The goat?’ Rilla said blankly.

‘The one you rode?’

But, of course, the goat. The relief was so great she almost laughed out loud. Her smile grew wide. She had quite forgotten the goat. Good lord, he could talk about the goat ad infinitum, if he chose.

‘Julie!’ Lady Lockhart’s strident voice startled both girls. Julie turned so quickly she nearly tumbled into the rubber plant.

Her mother approached, bearing down on them in a well-corseted purple dress. ‘There you are. Whatever are you doing, hiding in the shadows? People want to dance with you! You’ll never make a match indulging in idle chatter.’

‘No, Mama.’

‘Good evening, Amaryllis.’ Her ladyship cast an appraising glance over Rilla’s gown and coiffure. ‘You’d best be standing straight. Giggling is never attractive in girls. They appear vapid. Indeed, you’d best make yourself presentable if you hope to find a husband.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ Rilla dropped a curtsy.

‘Come along!’ Lady Lockhart propelled her daughter away. Rilla watched. Julie looked smaller, as though only propped up by the abundant cloth of her gown.

Alone once more, Rilla glanced back to Jack as he crossed the room. He had all the swaggered arrogance she remembered from the schoolroom and, more recently, when he’d visited Father. If only they hadn’t gambled—

To be beholden to such a man.

An unladylike swear word flashed through her mind and she had to bite her lip to keep from saying it aloud. The obnoxious man had gone to Imogene.

The earl was asking her to dance.

For a brief unreasonable instant Rilla wanted to sprint across the floor and physically pull him from her sister. An impotent anger vibrated through her and she felt her fists tighten.

‘Goodness, why so fierce, Miss Gibson?’

Rilla jumped at the low male voice. Turning, she found herself staring at a broad masculine chest encased in a white-satin waistcoat and black jacket.

* * *

The girl looked more like a golden statue than a human form. The cream muslin dress was shot with gold and shimmered with her every move. Her hair was a crown of ruddy gold, piled high with soft tendrils curling at her neck.

Miss Gibson was definitely not pretty, that would be too insipid. Nor beautiful, her face was not cast in classic lines. No, she was striking, inspiring almost.

Good Lord, and he was staring at her like a goggle-eyed fool.

‘Miss Gibson.’ He made his bow.

She turned and frowned as though disorientated. ‘Lord Wyburn, you startled me.’

‘My apologies, Miss Gibson. You were engrossed,’ he said.

‘Yes, I was watching—’

‘Your sister’s success. Without much pleasure, it would appear.’

Colour rushed into her cheeks, but she caught his meaning quick enough.

‘I’m not jealous of my sister, if that is what you mean,’ she said.

‘Blunt again. Jealousy is a natural feeling.’

‘Natural to some—not me. I’m happy for my sister.’

‘If not envy, then why the angry countenance?’ Paul asked more gently.

‘I disapprove of my sister’s partner.’

Good Lord, the girl really did have a penchant for direct speech—a rarity in the female sex.

‘I agree, although your bluntness will cause you no end of grief.’

‘I might insult someone?’

Paul smiled despite himself. ‘Even in secluded corners, one may be overheard.’

She made a face, seemingly unimpressed with the suggestion. ‘I am not afraid of Lockhart. Straight talk might do him good.’

‘But it might do the speaker harm, particularly if the object of her speech chooses to use his influence to discredit her.’

He saw a flicker of apprehension, quickly squashed.

‘So,’ he asked lightly, wanting to relieve the very anxiety he had caused, ‘are you enjoying it?’

‘The dance?’ she said, with uncharacteristic vagueness.

‘That is the event we are currently attending.’

‘Yes.’ She looked about her with genuine admiration and smiled. ‘Yes, it is beautiful, magical almost.’

Paul followed her gaze and watched the expressions flicker across her mobile features. For a moment, he forgot that he had been to hundreds of balls and that their allure had long since tarnished.

Instead, he saw the room as she did, a fairyland of flickering light, mirrors, music and perfumed air.

‘Dance with me,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Your card is not full and I fear the current situation is not appropriate.’

‘In what way?’ Her brows drew together.

‘We have not yet danced. May I have the honour, Miss Gibson?’

Her face registered an interesting mix of emotion: surprise, confusion, reluctance. She shifted back towards the rubber plant. Good lord, the chit actually wanted to refuse. No one had turned him down since he was a callow youth. He did not know whether to be angered or amused.

‘I believe that hiding is not acting with the utmost propriety,’ he added.

‘I am not hiding!’

‘And refusing to dance with the stepson of one’s benefactress might not be entirely appropriate.’

‘Then, pray tell, what would you have me do?’

‘Accompany me to the dance floor,’ he said, inclining his head towards the orchestra.

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t wish to be improper. Lady Wyburn said you would feel obligated to ask.’

He frowned, perversely irritated. ‘She exaggerates my sense of social obligation, I assure you.’

‘I am certain she meant it as a compliment.’

‘No doubt. But now you are looking much too serious. Smile as though I’ve said something particularly witty.’

‘Is that what all the other women do?’ she asked.

She smelled of soap and lemons, he thought, as he led her to the dance floor. He liked the smell, tangy and fresh, so different from the perfumed scents of other women.

‘My lord?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ He jerked his attention back to the conversation.

‘Do other women look spellbound as if you’ve said something witty?’

‘Naturally.’

He took her gloved hand and felt it tremble within his palm. The dance started and they broke apart in time to the music.

‘Even when you haven’t said anything either inspiring or witty?’ she asked as they came together again.

‘Especially then.’

‘How tiresome for you.’

‘Why so?’

‘Well, it must make you feel as though you’re not a real person, but just a viscount.’

He laughed. ‘That’s the first time I’ve been called “just a viscount”.’

‘I meant no offence.’

‘I know.’ And it was true, he thought, surprised by her perception. Few people saw him as a person and women never did. He was a good catch, with a title, estate and ample income.

‘Now you’re much too serious,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you supposed to look as though I’ve also said something remarkably entertaining?’ She stepped under his raised arm. ‘Or does it not work both ways?’

‘It does and can be tedious, I assure you.’

‘Indeed, I find discussions about the weather highly overrated.’

‘Try looking fascinated by a spaniel’s earwax,’ he said, remembering a conversation with a certain Miss Twinning.

Miss Gibson laughed, a rich spontaneous sound. No, she was no statue. She was too vibrant—more like a flame caught in human form.

‘I take it you do not discuss earwax?’ he asked.

‘I steer clear of that subject. In fact, I say remarkably little and endeavour to stick to Imogene’s list of suitable topics.’ She spoke with mock solemnity, the amusement in her eyes belying her tone. She had remarkable eyes.

‘Which include?’

‘Fashion and the weather.’

‘Really.’ They were dancing side by side. He caught another whiff of lemon. ‘And what,’ he murmured, bending so close that her hair tickled his cheek, ‘would you discuss if left to your own devices?’

‘My waterwheel and butter churn.’

‘Your what?’ His fashionable ennui deserted him and he almost missed a step, narrowly avoiding the Earl of Pembroke’s solid form.

‘My butter churn,’ she said more slowly.

‘And what makes this churn so worthy of conversation?’

‘Nothing really. I should not have mentioned it.’ She looked regretful, glancing downward so that her lashes cast lacy shadows against her cheeks.

‘Oh, but you should. I’m fascinated.’ This was, surprisingly, true. He wanted to lean into her and catch again that delightful whiff of lemon. He wanted to see the intelligence sparkle in her eyes and feel her hand tremble, belying her external calm.

‘The churn is automated by a waterwheel, you see, and I believe it would save our dairy maid so much hard labour.’ She spoke quickly, her cheeks delightfully flushed with either enthusiasm or embarrassment.

‘And have you had the opportunity to test its efficiency?’

‘Once,’ she said.

‘Successfully, I trust.’

Her lips twitched and she looked up, merriment twinkling. ‘The water succeeded in flooding the dairy. After that my device was banished.’

‘Unfortunate.’

‘However, I have constructed a small model so that I can perfect the design during my baths.’

‘Your baths?’ He choked on the word.

His mind conjured a vision of long, wet hair, full breasts and alabaster limbs. He caught his breath.

Her cheeks reddened. ‘One of those forbidden subjects like undergarments. I mean—I only mentioned baths because my churn is run by a waterwheel. Hence I need a source of water to move the wheel.’

He laughed. He could not help himself. Her conversational style might be unusual, but it was certainly more edifying than the weather.

Or earwax, for that matter.

She was, Paul realised, a good dancer. This surprised him. He’d always thought of her as moving with unladylike speed, charging full tilt into the museum or galloping on Rotten Row.

Now she kept perfect time, her body graceful and her movements fluid and rhythmic.

‘You love music,’ he said.

‘I do. And you?’

For a second he could not recall her question.

‘Like music?’ she prompted. ‘My lord, if I recall, you are supposed to at least pretend to pay attention.’

‘I must take you to the opera.’

She missed a step.

Blast. And curse his operatic suggestion. In fact, he should not spend another second in the girl’s company. Already, he was behaving out of character. He’d chortled at her impudence, enjoyed an entirely inappropriate conversation about churns, baths and undergarments, and was inordinately interested in eyes of an indeterminate grey-green and a pair of quite ordinary lips. No, not really ordinary. Their shape was too fine... And she licked them delightfully when discussing a scientific principle.

He frowned.

‘You are under no duress to entertain me—or take us to the opera,’ she said with sudden stiffness, her jaw lifting and her movements turning mechanical. ‘I understand from Lady Wyburn that our evenings are extremely full.’

‘If I choose to invite you to the opera, you will go,’ he retorted, unreasonably irritated.

‘If you choose to invite me in a civil manner, I will consider your invitation.’

‘I...’ He paused.

‘You must learn to school your features, my lord. I’m sure scowling at your partner is scarcely appropriate.’

‘And you must learn the art of polite conversation.’ He glowered with greater ferocity.

‘You suggested I discuss my churn.’

‘Before I knew there were baths involved.’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘Only as a source of water. Much like a puddle. There can be nothing inappropriate about a puddle.’

And now he wanted to laugh. ‘I believe you might be advised to heed your sister,’ he said instead.

‘And I believe that the music has stopped, my lord.’

‘What?’

‘The music has ended,’ she repeated.

This was true and the gentlemen were already making their bows and leaving the floor with their partners.

‘Moreover, standing stock still in the middle of the dance floor might cause comment which would not, I know, be appropriate.’