Anne Barbour (12 page)

By the time the orchestra had wended its way through the final chords of the dance, the young man was beaming at Tally in naked adoration. He relinquished her hand only when she had promised him another dance later on, and begged that she would make time for a stroll with him on the terrace before the evening was over.

Tally felt a surge of exhilaration at this unfamiliar display of admiration, and passersby were treated to the sight of an uniquely attractive young woman in their midst, her cheeks delicately flushed, and her eyes aglow.

Thus, Tally found herself with a plenitude of partners, and a few hours into the evening, she found it necessary to recoup her strength at the refreshment table.

Tally! What a pleasure to see you here. I trust you have saved a dance for me?”

She whirled and found herself facing Lord Chelmsford, who looked impossibly magnificent in the dark evening coat that shrugged over his wide shoulders.

“Jonathan! I had no idea you would be here this evening.”

“And miss the saddest crush of the Season? We wouldn’t think of staying away.”

We?

Tally followed the direction of Jonathan’s amused glance, and there was Lady Belle, in the center of her usual court. Tonight she graced the assemblage in a gown whose underdress of wine satin clung lovingly to every seductive curve. Over this lay a tunic of pale pink gauze, sewn with hundreds of tiny spangles, so that with every graceful movement, she shimmered like the enchanted princess of a lover’s fantasy. Her guinea gold hair was caught in an airy puff of curls, and, nestled in their silky depths, a headdress of her favorite diamonds winked in the candlelight.

How fortunate, Tally thought wryly, that she had viewed the vision in the mirror earlier in the evening with a healthy dose of reality. For, if she had cherished any dreams of being the belle of the evening, those hopes must be most cruelly dashed. As she watched, Miles Crawshay bent over Lady Belle’s hand and then swept her into the waltz that was just beginning.

“And now, that dance, Tally.” It was Jonathan, his arm extended to lead her onto the floor.

“Oh, I am sorry, Jonathan, my card is full.” Tally spoke the words with genuine regret, tempered by the pleasure it gave her to be able to say them.

“In fact,” she continued, “if I am not mistaken, here comes my partner now.”

She motioned to the figure of a portly dandy, approaching with purpose.

“Hah! Chelmsford,” the gentlemen bellowed jovially. “Haven’t seen you since the Bessemer mill. Hope you didn’t place any blunt on Stubbs.”

“Not I, Lord Mellenthwaite.” Jonathan laughed. “I am far too downy a bird to wager on any opponent of Bessemer’s whose reach is as short as young Andy’s.”

“Hah,” his lordship barked once more. Then he turned with a courtly bow to Tally.

“My lady, I believe this is my waltz.”

But, as he extended a chubby hand to Tally, Jonathan deftly interposed himself.

“I beg leave to claim a prior privilege, Mellenthwaite. You see, Lady Talitha and I are old friends and haven’t seen each other in dogs” years. So much to catch up on and all that.”

So saying, he whisked Tally onto the dance floor, under the astonished — not to say, outraged gaze, of the plump peer.

“Jonathan, how could you?” gasped Tally. “Of all the rappers! ‘Old friends,’ indeed. Why, we haven’t known each other a fortnight!”

“A fortnight? Come now, we’ve surely known each other for much longer than that.”

Tally jerked spasmodically in Jonathan’s light grasp. She stole a look upward into his face, but his expression was unreadable.

“Indeed?” she quavered.

“Mm, yes. You remind me dimly of someone I met several years at—at a come-out ball, I think it was.”

Tally froze. She cast frantically about in her mind for another subject to throw into the breach, but Jonathan was continuing.

“You, however, are much more attractive than that other young woman. I notice, by the way, you have a new way of doing your hair. Most becoming.”

By now, Tally wished she could simply collapse to the floor and dissolve there. He did remember that awful night! And he was teasing her! Well, she would show him that she was not to be humiliated a second time!

She raised an uninterested face to his. “I can’t imagine what you are talking about.” Quickly she nodded toward a couple dancing nearby. “Is that Mr. Wendover? I have not met him, but I overheard someone addressing him as such.”

“Yes, that’s George. Don’t you think he will make an excellent Clive?”

Tally watched the gentleman, whose carelessly tied cravat, tumbled curls, and muscular physique marked him as a Corinthian. He had obviously been imbibing rather heavily, for he stumbled as he steered his embarrassed partner about the floor. No one could call him attractive, indeed his surly features were arranged in a most haphazard manner, and there was about him an insolent air of self-assurance that she found displeasing. Yet, she supposed, some might find a certain charm in his studied nonchalance. Yes, such a man, worldly and evidently ripe for any spree, would no doubt appeal greatly to young Clifford, fresh from his country estate.

Jonathan obligingly drew near to the erratically weaving couple, and Tally committed to memory George Wendover’s splayed nose, his thin smile, and the arrogant tilt of his head as he bent to pay a compliment to the young lady he held in his arms.

“Yes,” agreed Tally. “Perfect. I shall commit him to paper this very night.”

She gave herself up to the enjoyment of the dance. Oddly, she felt at ease in Jonathan’s arms. Her body seemed precisely constructed to fit against his, and she felt as though she were receiving the rhythm of the music through his muscular frame. Her feet seemed to move of their own volition, following his steps without effort, and the throbbing of her heart soared above the strains of the melody. She was floating—she was flying! She had not known dancing could be so exhilarating!

Jonathan smiled at the animated little face before him. Tally’s cheeks were pink with excitement, and her eyes fairly blazed as he whirled her through the steps of the waltz. What a difference from the last time he had danced with her. He smiled suddenly, remembering the icy composure she had maintained all through the seemingly endless patterns of that long-ago waltz.

Had he done the right thing in reminding her of that occasion? He had wished only to assure her that she now bore no resemblance to the unattractive maiden she had been, having emerged from her plain, ill-fitting chrysalis into a charming butterfly.

Jonathan’s arms tightened around Tally involuntarily, and as her soft curves fitted themselves to him, it was as though the rhythm of her heart sang through his blood. Startled, he bent his gaze to hers and held his breath in recognition of what he saw there.

The music stopped, and Tally stepped breathlessly back from Jonathan’s arms.

“Oh, that was lovely!” she cried.
What was that in your eyes, Jonathan? Merely a reflection of my delirium?

“But, how unfashionable, my dear.” His voice betrayed nothing of what had just occurred, beyond a faint roughness.

Tally’s glance flew to his face.

To be seen actually enjoying yourself,” he continued. “It’s simply not done, my dear. You will, of course, wish to convey to your partner that you have been invited to every social function of the Season, and have thus become too, too bored with the whole thing.”

Her eyes still dancing, Tally allowed her lids to droop. Her small nose lifted in disdain, and the corners of her mouth twisted in an exaggerated picture of ennui.

“Gracious, my lord,” she drawled, “Have you ever seen such a dismal crush? I vow, I quite wonder why I came—so very dull, don’t you think?”

Jonathan threw back his head in laughter. “Perfect! You are just like every other insipid young woman in the room tonight. Now, stop it please, and be Tally again.”

“Since I find it impossible to be anything else…” she began, only to be interrupted by the sound of a cool chime of laughter behind her.

“Jonathan!”

It was Lady Belle, shaking her finger at her fiancé in mock reproof. Beside her stood Miles Crawshay, impeccable, if slightly overdressed, in a waistcoat of Italian brocade, and a velvet coat.

“Jonathan,” Lady Belle repeated, her blue eyes sparkling mischievously. “You promised to dance the first waltz with me. Fortunately for you, Miles was nearby and rescued me from the ignominy of having to sit with the matrons while you abandoned me for another.”

She turned to Tally and sent a puzzled glance skimming from the top of the shining curls to the hem of the amber satin gown.

“Lady Talitha, how—nice to see you again.”

Tally smiled courteously and turned to respond to Mr. Crawshay’s greeting, which was somewhat warmer than Clea’s.

Jonathan and Crawshay merely nodded to one another. Tally was left with an inescapable impression of mutual antipathy.

Jonathan smiled fondly on his betrothed. “The picture of you sitting amongst the matrons,” he said laughing, “is too ludicrous to bear thinking of, my dear. There now, they’re playing another waltz.” He reached for her hand. “Come, allow me to make retribution,”

Clea giggled in capitulation, and was soon swept away in Jonathan’s arms.

Tally eyed Miles Crawshay in some misgiving. Despite his air of polished courtesy, she felt uncomfortable in his presence.

“You seem to be enjoying the ball, Lady Talitha.”

It was an innocuous enough statement. What was there about Mr. Crawshay’s manner that insinuated awareness of all that one would like to keep secret? His knowing smile seemed to imply a shared conspiracy, leaving Tally with the unreasonable, but uncomfortable feeling that he knew all--whatever all might be.

She assumed an air of nonchalance she did not feel. “Yes, indeed, Mr. Crawshay. It is my first ball since I returned to London.”

“Returned?”

“Why, yes. This is not my first visit, of course, but it has been some four years since I enjoyed the bustle of the metropolis. And you, Mr. Crawshay?” she asked in an effort to turn the conversation away from herself.

“Ah, four years ago I was a soldier, ma’am, serving in the Peninsula. I took a ball in the shoulder at Corunna and was sent home. I cannot lift my arm above my shoulder, you see.” He grinned deprecatingly. “I told my superiors that I’m still fit enough to lead a charge, but they would have none of it.”

Tally’s eyes widened. Corunna! She recalled the reports she had read of the bloody fighting there. Why, the man was a hero!

“In what unit did you serve, Mr. Crawshay?” she asked diffidently, hoping that her question would not bring back unpleasant memories.

But Mr. Crawshay apparently had no difficulty in discussing past glories. “I was with the Eighty-second Foot. It was just outside the city where I received my wound. We had been ordered to hold our position by the river, but we were outnumbered three to one. A group of our fellows became cut off from our party, and I tried to make my way over to them. The last thing I remember about that day was a horse rearing in back of me. I had turned at the noise he made—then the pain in my shoulder— then—nothing.”

“I have heard it was dreadful beyond words,” she said softly, the picture of the battle filling her mind. “Several families in our village lost sons and husbands there.”

“But surely”—Crawshay smiled brightly — “this is an unfit topic for such a gay occasion. Shall we join the dancers, Lady Tally?”

But Tally, referring again to her card, was obliged to decline, and in a few moments found her hand claimed by a large gentleman who had asked most earnestly earlier in the evening for a cotillion. As she and her partner; bounced down the floor in the lusty rhythms of the country dance, she did not notice that she was followed by the speculative gaze of Miles Crawshay.

Some moments later, Tally stood breathlessly on the sidelines, accepting a flowery bouquet of compliments from the large gentlemen. Her eyes crinkled in laughter. No, surely she did not resemble a wisp of thistledown windblown across a meadow as she flew through the steps of the dance. Nonetheless, she confessed guiltily to herself, the large gentleman’s blatant flattery was as welcome as rain on a parched garden. She could not remember when anyone had so much as told her she was presentable, much less that she was a vision of fairylike beauty.

Practicing, she gazed upward through long, thick lashes, and was rewarded by a returning stare of unmixed infatuation.

“Guard yourself, my lord,” spoke a voice from behind Tally. Cat’s white hand came to rest on her shoulder. “It is my sad duty to inform you that Lady Talitha is the most arrant flirt of my acquaintance.”

The words were uttered with a twinkle of mischief, and Tally’s erstwhile partner merely blushed and grinned.

“But now,” continued Cat, “I beg to deprive you of your vision, as I require her services.” She turned to Tally. “Alvanley is wearing that monstrous signet ring of his tonight, and during the last set, it caught here in the lace at my wrist.”

She held up her arm to display a length of torn trim trailing from her sleeve. “I cannot mend it with one hand, Tally. Would you mind assisting me?”

“Of course not,” responded Tally quickly. “I have pins in my reticule, and it won’t take a moment.”

Excusing themselves, the ladies made their way to a salon adjacent to the ballroom. Cat preceded Tally into the room, but as Tally prepared to follow her, Cat stopped suddenly. Tally peered over her shoulder to see what had caused her friend’s quick intake of breath and a sudden stiffening of her form.

Unbelieving, Tally stared at two figures who stood close together at the far end of the room, bathed in the glow of a single candle. Richard stood with his head bent attentively over that of Lady Belle, whose slim hands were placed intimately on the lapels of his coat. Her eyes clung to his, and, as she whispered urgently, Richard’s hand came up to close over hers.

Chapter Eleven

Late morning sun filled the Thurston breakfast room. Tally, her sketch pad wedged between her plate and her coffee cup, leafed through its pages as she nibbled eggs and York ham in a distracted manner. Occasionally, she added a line here, removed one there.