An Early Engagement (12 page)

“But it’s your name.”

“And my calling, milord. The family has always been in service.” He couldn’t suppress the smile. “It does confuse the callers, milord.”

By this time they had reached the master bedroom, redone, Stokely saw, in elegant navy velvet hangings with gold accents. He could not resist asking, in his most nonchalant voice: “I, ah, suppose there are a lot of callers?”

“Yes, indeed, milord. We are very popular.”

“And Sparrow, Lady Emilyann, she goes on all right?” Gads, he was quizzing his own butler!

“Oh, quite. I was able to advise her ladyship about a few matters that—”

“She took
your
advice?”

The butler poured out a glass of cognac and served it on a silver tray. He did not bother answering, instead commenting, “How upset Lady Stokely and the family will be to have missed you. Shall I send a boy after them? They are attending Lady Winstoke’s fete, I believe. They would have stayed in, I’m sure, had they known.”

“No, no, it’s my fault for not writing. It was a sudden decision to come, and I arrived before a letter would. All I need is a hot bath and my dress uniform pressed, then I might drop in at the Winstokes’ and surprise them.”

“Very good, milord, I’ll see to it at once.” He turned at the door. “And may I say how gratified I was that you requested my lady to seek me out for the position.”

“Did I ... ah, thank you, Butler.”

* * * *

The ball was well under way when he arrived. It was one of those massive affairs where the hostess invites more people than can possibly fit into her house, for her party to be a success. The receiving line was long disbanded, so the major just stood at the top of the stairs leading down to the ballroom, looking for a familiar face. He could not see across the floor on account of the crowds milling around and the smoke rising from the multitude of candles. The musicians seemed to be on intermission, but the noise was like a barnyard, and the scents of perfume, flowers, and dancing bodies all combined to create a mind-numbing fog. He wondered how the hell
anyone
was expected to find his own wife in this mob.

Then he spotted Nadine in a cluster of giggling debs in white gowns. So Emmy really had convinced the chit to at least dress the part of pure maiden, although he recognized his sister’s style in the rows of ruffles and frills. She was blooming, he could see, surrounded by a gaggle of rangy youths and a few scarlet jackets like his own. The minx was likely picking her partners by their bank balances, he thought, but she looked charming, without that discontented expression he was used to seeing on her face.

The major was attracting no small attention himself, standing in the entry in his regimentals, dress sword and all. His brother Geoff soon hailed him from across the hall, and tried to dash between the wedged bodies, nearly upending a fop balancing two cups of punch.

“Ev, it’s really you! I couldn’t believe m’eyes! I said to Rem here—oh, this is Johnny Remington, Ev. Rem, m’brother Stokely, you know, the hero, Emmy’s husband. I said that looks—”

The major was trying to shake an embarrassed-looking youth’s hand while still being pounded on the back by his exuberant brother. Geoff was broader than he remembered, and a great deal neater. Likely Butler was tying his neckcloths for him.

“—best of all things great, I said. The fellows have been dying to meet you, read all about you in the war news, you know. There’s McCall and Wister in the card room, unless you want some refreshment first. They set a fine table, lobster patties, you know, and—”

“Hold, cawker. I just got here! I’ve got to pay my respects to my hostess, and I really think I should like to say hello to my wife.” He was looking around, so happily missed Remington’s fierce blush.

“You mean you haven’t seen Emmy yet? What a shock, ah, surprise you’ll be for her. I can’t figure how you missed her though. She’s right over there.”

Geoff gestured to the near corner, where a group of people—no, personages—was given a respectful distance. Stokely instantly recognized Lord Castlereagh, temporarily back from the peace talks, in conversation with a tall man in the uniform of, yes, the Russian forces, dripping gold braid and decorations. Princess Lieven and the Russian ambassador were there, and Sally Jersey. Another man may have been the deputy prime minister, but he could not be sure from the angle. No matter, his eyes skipped on to the next group of partygoers. Geoff laughed. “No, there.” He motioned back toward that first, select circle.

The Russian peacock turned—he had to be one of the princes, from the rows of medals—revealing a ... a what? A dream? A sprite? A small, exquisite, merrily laughing woman, shimmering in a brilliant blue gown that was tied at one shoulder only, with a cloud of curls so light colored it could have been a halo but for the tiara set regally in their midst. Stokely swallowed, hard. Sparrow? It could not be.

The last time he had seen Emilyann she had been a scrawny, scrappy, filthy waif in boys’ clothes, then a scrawny, scrubbed, wide-eyed child-bride clutching a bouquet of violets, wearing his nightshirt in that parody of a wedding. The last he’d seen of her, before handing her into the coach and sending her off to Stockton, she’d been a scrawny, shapeless imp in a too-big gown of some nondescript color, lost in her clothes like a little girl playing grown-up. Her faded hair was lopped off in odd angles and lengths so he quickly tied a limp bonnet over it, bringing a twinkle to those blue eyes, the only color in her pale face.

Well, she certainly wasn’t scrawny anymore, nor the least bit colorless, and she definitely was not just playing at being grown-up.

“Better shut your mouth, brother, before something flies into it.”

Stokely did not hear him. He went down the stairs in a daze, crossed the room as if the crowd weren’t there, barely nodded to the notables in her circle, bowing slightly in case the Russian was indeed a royal, out of habit only, and as the band struck up for the next interval, said, “I believe this is my dance, Lady Stokely.”

Emilyann turned, saw a truly handsome officer—and turned again. “Smoky!” she cried, her smile becoming even more radiant, and started to rush into his arms. Then she remembered herself, the company she kept, and how she wanted to show Smoky how sophisticated she was. So she amended her delighted call to “Stokely,” sank into her most graceful curtsy to excuse herself from the gathering, and offered him her hand. He raised it to his lips, still trying to regroup his rattled perceptions, and led her onto the dance floor. His feet thankfully performed the waltz steps, for his mind was not sending directions, too busy absorbing this glorious woman in his arms. The pert nose and dimples were the same but the eyes were a more startling blue; he wondered how anyone could have considered her colorless with that creamy glow to her skin, especially that soft fullness above the gown’s low-draped neckline.

His mouth was dry; his throat felt like a hedgehog had taken residence there. All he could think to say, confirming his place with the army and not the diplomatic corps, was “My God, Sparrow, you don’t look like a plucked chicken anymore at all!”

Emilyann laughed, that same bubbly gurgle he remembered. She thought she would burst with pride; she thought the orchestra had stopped playing, her heart was beating so loudly. So she stopped dancing, coming to a stumbling halt still in his arms. And he stopped, too. And they just looked at each other for a moment until Smoky laughed, held his arms open, and lifted her right off the ground as she came to his embrace. He twirled her around, miraculously missing the other dancers.

“My proper countess,” he said, smiling, while she hugged what she could of him. Blushing, she stepped back and they continued the dance. Sally Jersey was seen to dab a tear from her eye, and Princess Lieven nodded knowingly. This certainly removed the last traces of doubt about the marriage. If ever there was a love match, it was this one. Every eye was on them, and Lady Winstoke’s ball was a guaranteed smash.

Whose ball? It could have been a Red Indian rain dance around a gamy campfire for all the Stokelys noticed. They waltzed, they smiled, they stared into each other’s eyes. Like moon-calves, Smoky decided, finally coming partway back to earth.

“I can’t seem to get over the changes in you since I saw you last, and the house, and all—”

“You look different, too. Not as thin.”

“Not as castaway and hung over, you mean.”

“Somehow you do not seem as tall as I remember. Perhaps I grew.”

She certainly had. “You even grew eyelashes.”

That laugh. “No, I found a French maid with secrets no lady talks about.”

He only half pretended to give her careful scrutiny, turning her around in the dance. “Nothing else looks like artifice to me.”

“Well, you’ll have plenty of time to discover for yourself.”

Gads, he was flirting with Sparrow! “Not long enough, I’m afraid. I have only ten days, with travel. Things are becoming less settled instead of more, and I have to return.”

“Oh.”

He hated seeing her look down like that, and would do anything to have the dimples restored. “I suppose every man in the room has already told you how perfectly your gown matches the color of your eyes,” he teased.

“Do you like it? You’d better, it’s named for you. Stokely blue, they call it. Isn’t that silly?”

“Especially when my eyes are gray.” There, she was smiling again. “And you dance divinely.”

“Now, why do you sound so surprised? I think you’re just waiting for me to pull a frog out of my pocket or do something else outrageous. I’ll have you know that hugging you in public was the most improper thing I have done since I have been in London.”

“I should hope so! But you’ll have to forgive me, Sparrow, for thinking you are still ten years old. You’ve had years to grow up, and I seem to be seeing the results all at once.”

“And?”

“Are you fishing for compliments now, minx? Very well, I am only sorry I am not home for good.”

She was sorry, too, and sorry the waltz was coming to an end. “You dance very well yourself,” she said as they walked to the sidelines. “Where did you find opportunity to practice during all the war years?”

He passed it off. “Oh, here and there. Do you think we might collect Nadine and Geoff and leave this crowd? Or we could send the carriage back for them. I can hardly hear myself speak and—”

“Oh, dear, I’m sorry, but I’m promised for the next set.”

“Come now, Sparrow, the returning husband does have some precedence.” His eyes narrowed. “You can just tell your beau that I have prior claim.”

“Not this one,” she said, giggling delightfully, and more so when she saw his frown. Meanwhile she was leading him, fully aware that many eyes were focused in their direction, toward a section of gilt chairs near the orchestra. She nodded toward a particularly corpulent gentleman who struggled up from his seat, smiling. Then she looked back at Smoky and winked, before sinking into a deep curtsy and murmuring, “Your Highness, I believe you bespoke this dance?”

Smoky made his bow to the prince regent, and whispered in her ear as he stood aside: “Where did you learn to flirt like that?”

“Oh, here and there,” she tossed back over her shoulder with another gamine grin.

How could a deuced ball go on so long, and how could a man who organized the movements of whole battalions, their cannons, cookstoves, and camp-followers, have so much difficulty garnering three youngsters in one place?

They were supposed to meet in the marble hallway after saying their good-byes and collecting their wraps. But Nadine wanted just one more dance with an exquisite in a puce waistcoat, and Geoff was promised to Lady Huntington’s niece, a squint-eyed miss who would never find another partner for the quadrille. Then he had to make his particular friends known to Stokely, who was himself drawn into innumerable greetings, belated congratulations on his marriage, and discussions of the Vienna talks and chances of a lasting peace. He found himself committed to calling at Carlton House, Whitehall, and, almost, a certain boudoir of a politically astute widow. Emilyann’s cough put a stop to that.

Everyone laughed when he introduced her as Emilyann Arcott and he had to be reminded that she was Lady Stokely. Her glittering eyes told him he’d damn well better not forget again, especially in the presence of dashing widows in dampened gowns who wanted to hang on his arm. He quickly extricated himself from Lady Bramby’s efforts to renew acquaintance, seeing Emmy’s slippered foot tapping the ground. He was not about to test if her famous temper had undergone the same drastic change as her looks, not in public anyway. He grinned at this new possessiveness of Sparrow’s, until more of her admirers kept claiming her company for dances, just when he thought they were ready to call for the carriage. Sauce for the goose, her look told him. He stopped grinning.

“You do not mind, I am sure?”

In a pig’s eye he didn’t, but he nodded and bowed to the Russian. He did not want to start an international incident.

“My dance, Major.” He saluted smartly. He did not wish to return to the army as a private either.

“I, ah, that is, Lady Em promised, I, uh ...”

A man would have to have a harder heart than Stokely’s to refuse that Remington boy, gazing at Sparrow with such moonstruck adoration. So that’s what all the blushes were about. He agreed resignedly, and was awarded such a sweet smile from his wife that he vowed to get her home right after this dance, even if Mad King George himself appeared in his nightshirt and asked her for a waltz. He grabbed Nadine lest she skip off again, and joined their set.

When the dance was finished he grimly placed one hand on his wife’s elbow and the other on his dress sword. This time no one interfered with their progress toward the door.

* * * *

Aunt Adelaide woke at all the commotion, and the servants darted about, hoping for a glimpse of the master. Soon they were snug in the new Egyptian salon, where cool black and white upholstery complimented the old black marble mantel. Only two chairs had crocodile heads for armrests, he was relieved to note, and the rest were comfortable, normal furniture. Stokely lounged at ease near the fire, his feet up on a footstool, with a glass of fine cognac in his hand, put down, he was assured by his wife, before the French conflict.