A Season for Love (17 page)

Lady Caroline stifled a sigh. Her
father was impressive. And in the matter of his daughter’s
come-out, he was as inexorable as a mail coach on a downhill run.
His daughter
would
make her
debut at Almack’s. She
would
have a proper come-out ball at Longville House. She
would
give serious consideration to
the array of London’s finest young gentlemen who would undoubtedly
flock to her side.

He wished to be rid of her. So he might have
more time with his bride, the great gawk.

Grimly, Caroline followed her step-mama up
the few steps into Almack’s. What her papa could possibly see in
that towering Amazon she could not imagine.

Yet, in spite of Caroline’s determination not
to be impressed by her first glimpse of this pinnacle of every
young lady’s aspirations, her private thoughts came to an abrupt
end as they entered the ballroom. Due to her own personal
inclinations, as well as the denigrating remarks she had heard
about Almack’s, she had come prepared to scoff. Now, she wondered,
unaccustomedly meek, if her false expectations were further proof
that she was indeed nothing but a country mouse in fancy dress.
For, truly, Almack’s was breathtaking.

Candles gleamed from a multiple array of
double-tiered chandeliers. The windows were so tall their gleaming
gold-fringed burgundy swags topped the musicians in their gallery
high above the dance floor. Delicate gilded designs decorated the
walls, with an occasional marble statue adding a touch of the
classical to the decor. And the people . . .

They were so
magnificent
Caroline’s heart surged when she
looked at them. They might be vain or vicious, shallow or erudite,
filled with ennui or vivacious enough to dance the night away. They
might be handsome or winsome, eighteen or eighty. She found them
all quite wonderful.

Was she slipping down into a sea of vanity,
succumbing to the lure of false façades, seduced by a panoply of
colors, the lilt of music, and the chatter of a world that
shattered the silence in which she had lived for so long?

Was she in danger of becoming as shallow as
all the others?

As shallow as her papa who helped run the
country and the war?

As shallow as her step-mama who had endured
living in the midst of war itself?

Enough!
Caroline did not care for the trend of her thoughts. Nor was
Almack’s the proper place to contemplate such uncomfortable
revelations. Either she was being drawn into a world she had been
taught to abhor or the glitter of the
ton
hid a number of persons who were not as
frivolous as they appeared.

A gentleman was bowing before her,
offering his arm.
Tony!
He had
promised to come, but Caroline had feared he might
forget.

“
Allow me to show you the premises,
such as they are,” the viscount said. “The supper room is always of
interest, I believe, and a few more secluded, if insignificant,
chambers where a young lady is best not to find herself alone with
a gentleman.”

“
Yet you wish to show them to
me.”

Lord Frayne shrugged, his handsome face
supremely innocent. “I believe they are suitably filled with people
at the moment. I was merely offering a general warning about
antechambers. Since you are not enamored with the idea of marriage,
you do not wish to find yourself in a position so compromising an
immediate betrothal is your only recourse.”

“
At Almack’s?” Caroline
scoffed.

“
Anywhere,” Tony solemnly assured her,
while deftly guiding her steps toward the quietest and most
deserted of the antechambers he had recently scouted. “Now this,”
he pronounced, “is exactly where you do not wish to be seen with an
eligible gentleman. Parson’s mousetrap will snap you
up.”

“
Are you not eligible?” Her eyes swept
over him, noting his attire was as elegant as her papa’s, though he
wore a jacket of deep blue instead of black, a blue a shade darker
than his eyes. He looked quite splendid. Caroline’s heart sighed,
even as she managed to school her face to the expected
indifference.

“
I am family.” Viscount Frayne stated
the obvious with just a hint of smug satisfaction. Then—at last—he
seemed to throw off the stiff demeanor he had donned for Almack’s.
Clasping his hands behind his back, he examined her from head to
toe, his eyes lingering, Caroline thought, just a bit too long over
her décolletage. “And, besides,” he drawled, “did you not wish to
explore some of the more dangerous elements of society?”

“
Somehow—perhaps because you are my
step-mama’s brother—” Caroline informed him tartly, “I had not
thought you were one of them.”

“
Touché
, my
dear.” Tony chuckled. “And I have been highly remiss in not telling
you how lovely you look tonight. A veritable diamond of the first
water.” He lifted her hand, gloved in elbow-length ivory kid, and
kissed the air just above her knuckles.

Caroline was well aware she had never
looked better in her life. Although she was too porcelain-skinned
to wear white well, ivory suited her to perfection. Over her gown
of
peau de soie
with tiny
puffed sleeves and a bodice so minuscule Miss Tompkins had gasped
when she saw it, fell a half-skirt of ivory tulle elaborately
embroidered in gold. Caroline’s slippers were also gold. Her
décolletage was emphasized, rather than filled in, by two strands
of ivory pearls her papa had presented to her that afternoon, along
with matching earbobs. Pearls were also entwined in her honey gold
hair.

And yet Lord Frayne had not noticed her
finery until now. And then he spouted a cliché so time-worn
Caroline could scarce believe the words had issued from his
customarily sophisticated lips. Lady Caroline Carlington, having
just received the ultimate accolade from one of the
ton
’s most eligible young lords,
stepped back and glared at her admirer.

Tony could not believe he had brought
her to this deserted room. When he had looked in a scant ten
minutes earlier, there were two other couples engaged in quiet
conversation. But at the moment he was alone with Caroline, his
wits so scrambled he was acting more like a scruffy schoolboy than
a gentleman who had been on the town for a
decade
. Diamond of the first water.
How could he have said something so trite? No matter how true
it might be. A fleeting glimpse of Caroline in the Worley diamonds
flashed across his vision
. No! Absolutely
not
. He was not taking on a leg-shackle.

“
Have you met the patronesses?” he
asked abruptly, reaching blindly for the first excuse he could
think of to exit the room.

“
Lady Castlereagh was kind enough to
provide my voucher. Naturally, her husband is well acquainted with
papa. And Lady Jersey and the Countess de Lieven have also called,”
Caroline informed him through what might best be described as bared
teeth.

“
Perhaps you would care to meet the
others,” the viscount suggested hastily, offering his
arm.

Caroline, looking as if she, too, wished to
escape, accepted his offer. Clearly, she found his behavior odd. No
more so than he himself, Tony thought. Being addlepated was
something he had not experienced since his salad days. He could not
like it. He had taken one look at Lady Caroline, haloed by the
light of a thousand candles, almost as if shimmering with the
brilliance fairy magic, and felt forced to whisk her away, off by
herself where only he could look at her. And now, brought rudely to
his senses by the realization of his impropriety, he was throwing
her back into the fray. Allowing her to be put on display before
all the gentlemen who had come to London in search of a wife.

Only the very best gentleman, he reminded
himself. And promptly felt even worse. Tony had known he was in
trouble since the night he had encountered a golden-haired wraith
in the duke’s bookroom. He had simply not realized how serious that
trouble was until this very moment.

“
Perhaps we may be granted permission
to waltz.” He could not have said that! Over the past week he had
suffered the torture of waltzing with Caroline as she practiced for
this Wednesday night at Almack’s. And now he was deliberately
compounding his distress.

“
That would be lovely,” Caroline
agreed, falling off her high horse in a rush of gratitude.
“Truthfully, I am terrified. It would be so much better if my first
waltz were with you.”

They had reached the patronesses, even the
stiffest of whom smiled at Lord Frayne. His customary panache
revived, Tony made the introductions to the patronesses, an array
which included on this particular night the Countess de Lieven,
Lady Jersey, Lady Cowper, Lady Sefton, and the Princess
Esterhazy.

“
What a charming couple,” declared the
Countess de Lieven, beaming upon them both. “My lord, I believe we
must grant you permission to waltz with Lady Caroline.”

The viscount and Caroline solemnly thanked
the August patronesses, the Countess de Lieven in particular. As if
on cue, the musicians in the gallery struck up a waltz. Inwardly,
Tony blanched, but his features remained perfectly bland, as those
of any proper London gentleman should, no matter how severe the
stress. He turned to Caroline. “I believe we are about to be the
cynosure of all eyes,” he told her. “Close your eyes and picture us
alone in your papa’s ballroom and all will be well.” One hand moved
firmly to her waist, the other clasped his fingers around hers.

“
Everyone is staring,” she whispered
frantically. “I do believe they are waiting for us to
begin.”

“
Ah, no, your papa and Jen are taking
the floor.”

On a mutual sigh of relief, Viscount Frayne
and Lady Caroline Carlington began to waltz.

The Duchess of Longville, as bemused as
everyone else by the sight of her brother and Caroline receiving
nods of approval from the formidable patronesses of Almack’s, was
startled to find herself swept onto the dance floor by her
husband’s masterly hand. She gasped, nearly tripping over feet that
were usually unexpectedly light for a woman of her size. The duke
caught her easily, swinging her into the next measure as if she
were no weight at all. Jen wanted to sink. Their first waltz as a
married couple, and already she had proved herself a clumsy ox,
unfit for the elegant confines of society’s most renowned
assembly.

It was not, of course, her first waltz with
Marcus. They had partnered each other many times in the years since
she had put off her mourning. But, tonight, her first visit to
Almack’s as Duchess of Longville had loomed in her mind as a last
obstacle to conquer. Somehow the great gawk had become a duchess,
and she had taken care to dress for this auspicious but challenging
occasion. Her gown of soft apricot silk was cut with utter
simplicity and decorated solely with a narrow band of beadwork at
the bottom of each tiny puffed sleeves and at the hem of her skirt.
Above the tight bodice, which emphasized her magnificent bosom,
sparkled the tiers of diamonds that comprised the necklace the duke
had once shown her, the large tear-drop diamond at the bottom
poised intriguingly just above her cleavage. Diamond ear drops, a
bracelet, and a ring that could be seen only when she removed her
gloves completed the matched set.

Ruthlessly, Jen gathered her scattered wits,
settling into the lilting steps of the waltz as other couples began
to join them on the floor. Yes, there was Sir Chetwin dancing with
Lady Harriet. And Emily? . . . Jen experienced a rush of relief as
she saw Peyton Trimby-Ashford engaging Emily Bettencourt in
conversation at the edge of the dance floor. She should have been
overseeing the young woman’s Almack’s debut, which only her
position as Duchess of Longville had been able to maneuver past the
sharp guard of the patronesses. Yet here she was, held fast in her
husband’s arms . . . Jen peeked at the duke, only to discover his
eyes quite wickedly fixed on her décolletage.

“
Marcus!” she hissed.

Shiningly innocent amber eyes lifted to meet
her embarrassed, yet titillated, gaze. “Yes, my dear?”

Jen opened her mouth, found herself
speechless. She could feel an unbecoming scarlet, at odds with her
apricot gown, suffusing her face.

“
A man must have some amusement at
Almack’s,” the duke informed her with perfect aplomb. “Ratafia, dry
cakes, and whist,” he mouthed with scorn. “Almack’s is a far cry
from a comfortable gentlemen’s club, you must admit.”

His duchess glared. “It is your daughter’s
entrance into society,” she told him roundly.

“
Yes,” he agreed, swirling her into a
broad turn that nearly took her breath away, “and she seems to be
in good hands. As is Miss Bettencourt. So let us enjoy
ourselves.”

If enjoying himself meant he
could look down her dress . . .
Suddenly, Jen realized
the absurdity of her protest. He was her husband. He might look
down her dress all he wished. Just because he was doing it in
public, giving all the old tabbies, lined up on gilt chairs against
the wall, food for gossip, did not mean he did not have the right
to do as he pleased. Truthfully, she had caught him looking down
her décolletage a time or two before they were betrothed. As she
recalled, the frissons that shook her at the time, instead of
anger, had been among her first warnings that she had ceased to
mourn Gordon. That it was possible she could feel attraction to
another man.