Damsel in Distress (3 page)

“Oh, come, now. You must allow me to
try,
at least.”

As he played macao, he kept one eye on Caroline. He noticed that she was losing steadily, and seemed to be sad. He assumed she was regretting her losses, yet she kept on playing.

It was her memories of Julian that caused her wistfulness. She was bound to think of him on this special occasion. He was the one who had initiated gaming night, and now it had grown into this spectacular event. It seemed a fitting memorial to him.

How pleased he would have been to see his scandalous idea so successful
—
and how amused that it was now as respectable as the queen’s drawing room. Three cabinet ministers were here. As the croupier raked her last counter off the board, she sighed with relief. Now she could go back to dancing.

Once away from the throng, she was ambushed by memories of other gaming nights, when she and Julian had gone out on the town after the last guest left, then gone home and made passionate love. She retired to a quiet alcove to think.

It was there that Dolmain found her. He had seen her leave the table, noticed her distraught air, and wondered just how much she had lost. She looked pale and sad.

“Let me take you home, Lady Winbourne,” he said gently.

She looked up, startled to see him. Caught up in her memories, at his first appearance she had the absurd idea that he was Julian, “Yes, I would like to go home now,” she said. The dancing she had been anticipating had lost its attraction. She would just go home to bed
—
and her memories of Julian.

“I came with Mr. Newton,” she said. “I should tell him
—
”

“I shall tell him you are going home with me.” Dolmain called for his carriage, then went to the faro table and gave Newton the message.

“What, Caro leaving before the last dog is hung?” Newt asked. “That ain’t like her. Too much wine, I expect. Thankee, Dolmain. I have won a monkey. Wouldn’t you know tonight I would win, when I have to stay until I lose it all again.”

When Dolmain returned to her, he was solicitous of her comfort. He held her velvet wrap, and when he accompanied her to his carriage, he gave her his arm. In the shadowed carriage, he sat, not across from her, but on the banquette beside her.

“You seem sad, Lady Winbourne,” he said, with some sympathy. “I hope you have not lost more than you can afford?”

“Oh no. It is not that,” she assured him.

Of course, gamblers always denied their heavy losses. “Then what is troubling you?” he asked.

Dolmain didn’t seem the kind of gentleman she could confide her innermost heart to. She shook herself out of her mood and replied, “I was just remembering my first Season. It seems so long ago.”

“If it is any consolation, mine was a good deal longer ago than yours. You are still young, and very beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said, placing her hand on his. “It is sweet of you to try to cheer me up, Dolmain. Actually, I was thinking of my husband. He loved our gaming night. But then, he enjoyed all of life, and made it enjoyable for others, too. Especially me,” she added softly.

His hand closed comfortingly over hers. “It is hard to let go of the past, when the past was good,” he said. “As you probably know, I am a widower myself.”

“Yes, I know.” It helped to have someone to share her memories with. Someone who understood, and felt as she felt.

“Life goes on, and we must go on with it. It is unhealthy to harp on the past. Let us try, if we can, to comfort each other.”

“That would be nice,” she said.

He drew her head onto his shoulder and put his arm around her, as the first step to embracing her more fully. He was somewhat surprised when she said in a trusting voice, “I never thought you would be so understanding, Dolmain. You always looked so toplofty, but you are very nice. I expect it was sorrow that made you look so severe.”

“Severe! Is that how I looked to you? And here I thought I was wearing a smile, at least when I went into company.”

“You have got it all wrong. A smile turns the lips up.” She playfully placed her fingers at the ends of his lips and drew them up. “Like that. You will soon get on to it.”

He was about to pull her into his arms when she drew away. Tomorrow would be time enough to sound her out on what he had in mind. He knew Lady Winbourne had drunk a good deal of wine, and it would be ungentlemanly to take advantage of her. When he escorted her to the door of her house, he just kissed her lightly on the cheek, and said, “Sleep tight, milady.”

Caroline went straight up to bed and fell asleep quickly, but awoke in the middle of the night with a sense of something left undone. What was it? She had said good night to Julian. But she had not told him about Dolmain. Was that it? She thought of Dolmain’s unexpected kindness. Like her, he was lonesome. He must have been very much in love with his wife, to be still missing her after all these years. He seemed very nice. Perhaps she could help him forget....

Dolmain came the next afternoon at four, as agreed. On that fine spring afternoon, he was driving his open sporting carriage, a yellow curricle with shining silver appointments, drawn by a pair of blood grays. Caro knew at a glance that he
cared more for his carriage and horses than for his toilette. His jacket was a fine piece of tailoring, but it was simply cut. His shirt points were low, and his cravat neither large nor intricate.

It was the custom for the ton to meet at the barrier at Hyde Park around four to gossip and discuss their evening plans. She expected they would go there, but when Dolmain suggested a drive out the Chelsea Road, she was happy to go along with it.

“As I sat in the House, looking out the window at the blue sky, I felt an urge to be in the country
—
with you,” he said.

“Why me?”

“You are a little prettier than my groom,” he replied blandly.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Dolmain.”

“Then I must think of some other ploy. I hope you have no objection to the open carriage?”

“I love it, especially in the country, with the wind in my hair. I shall take off my bonnet after we get out of town.”

“Are you not afraid of freckles?” he asked, using it as an excuse to study her face. How youthful she looked, yet she was no green girl. She had been on the town for a decade.

“Not in the least. Why do you think God created rice powder?”

Once beyond city traffic, she removed her bonnet. The wind had its way with her raven curls, whipping them to and fro. It also brought a rosy flush to her ivory cheeks. The farms they drove by provided a subject for conversation. He was surprised to hear her speak knowledgeably of cows and corn and chickens. After they had driven five miles, she suggested they turn back.

“I thought we might stop at some small inn for tea,” he said. In the more intimate atmosphere of a civilized private parlor, the romance would progress more quickly.

“Would an ale not be more enjoyable? I am feeling bucolic today, after seeing all those cows. We passed a small tavern on our way out of town. There it is, Jack Duck’s Tavern.”

He blinked in surprise. “But ladies don’t go to places like that.”

“I do. I depend on you to protect me.”

“I doubt we will be physically attacked in broad daylight,” he said uncertainly.

“Daylight is a sovereign prevention to be sure, but I only meant an attack on my fair name, if anyone should see us being so unstylish.”

“Who will protect
my
reputation?”

“No one would dare to censure Lord Dolmain. You are above reproach. Something quite new for me, to have such an escort. What is the point of stepping out with such a top-of-the-trees gentleman if he cannot protect you from censure?”

“In that case, we may misbehave as much as we like, I take it?”

“Why, we may even throw caution to the winds and have two glasses of ale.”

He admired her adroit manner of ignoring his leading statements. Caro paid no heed to the sawdust on the floor and the plain deal table. When the innkeeper’s dog strolled in and sat at her feet, she reached down and patted it.

“That dog has fleas,” he warned her.

“Poor dog. Why don’t they give him a bath with lye soap?”

“I see no evidence of soap ever being used in this place,” Dolmain replied, casting an eye over the dim windows.

After two tankards of ale, Caro suggested they return to town. Dolmain was sorry the outing was over. He had enjoyed himself
—
but he had not gotten an inch closer to seducing her.

“Will you be at the ball this evening?” she asked, as they drove back.

No further identification of the party was necessary. “The ball” that evening was Lady Castlereagh’s ball, the first large one of the new Season. It promised to be a glittering affair. Castlereagh was the foreign secretary, and his wife was one of the patronesses of Almack’s, the most prestigious club in London. Dolmain’s work brought him in frequent contact with Castlereagh, and despite the difference in their politics, they were friends. Dolmain had previously accepted an invitation to dine with the Castlereaghs before the ball, so Caro would go with Newt, as she had already arranged.

As she dressed for the do and had dinner with Georgie, she wondered what Dolmain was doing, and if he was thinking of her. Already he was becoming more than just a friend in her mind. He sent her a corsage of two white orchids. She was surprised at that streak of gallantry in him, and was touched that he had taken time out of his busy life to arrange for the flowers.

Newt arrived at the appointed hour, rumpled and inelegant as ever. “All set?” he asked.

“Ready to go.”

“Where are we off to tonight?”

“Castlereaghs.”

“Ah.” A frown creased his brow as he rooted through his pockets, drawing out various crumpled invitations and pieces of paper and mumbling to himself, “Abercrombie’s rout, a game of cards with Neill, Hoby
—
ten guineas for a new pair of boots.” He crumpled the paper up and tossed it in the grate. “Not one sou for Hoby until he gets the squeak out of those boots. Castlereagh’s seems to be the one card I left at home. I had one.” He scratched his head, further destroying an already bad head of hair. “No matter. They’ll let me in when I’m with you. Known to all the best butlers. Daresay you could walk in with Jack Ketch himself and no one would stop you.”

“Let us go,” Caro said, and waved good-bye to Georgie. She was so eager to see Dolmain again that she flew down the stairs and into the carriage. At the opening of the Season, the streets were alive with carriages. Lanterns blazed in front of the houses where a rout or ball was being held. The lineup of carriages in front of Castlereagh’s was a block long. The younger guests, including Caro and Newt, deserted their carriages and walked to the door, leaving John Groom in charge of the horses.

Newt was admitted to the ball with no difficulty. They were soon standing in line, waiting to be announced. Caroline felt the tingling anticipation that always preceded a great ball, especially the first ball of the Season. The sensation was heightened on that occasion by her eagerness to be with Dolmain. She saw Lady Jersey and Emily Cowper. Of course they would be there, sister patronesses of Lady Castlereagh at Almack’s.

How the debs and their mamas would be scrambling to obtain vouchers. Without a voucher to Almack’s, one might as well admit defeat and go back to the country. Only half a dozen of the three hundred officers of the Foot Guards had made it last year
—
younger sons of good and often noble families had been turned down.

Caro was a member. She was careful to attend a few assemblies each year to assure herself and society that she still belonged. Actually, the assemblies were an ordeal. Quadrilles and Scotch reels were the preferred dances, with only orgeat to slake the thirst. The playing of cards was allowed, but hardly more enjoyable, as the play was for chicken stakes.

Caroline’s eyes skimmed the room, looking for Dolmain. Her heart raced when she spotted his dark head amidst the throng on the dance floor. The opening minuet was already in progress. Her next interest was to see who he was dancing with. She felt a definite lurch of jealousy when she saw his companion, a young lady in white
—
a deb. It was not just that he was standing up with her, but the intimate way he smiled at her. Surely he was well past the age for debutantes. It seemed he had a colt’s tooth in his head. The girl was a pretty blonde, but young enough to be his daughter.

Caroline had the first set with Newton. Her major preoccupation was to keep away from his marauding toes; his was to spy out the new batch of young ladies making their curtseys.

“The one with the yaller curls,” he said, as the dance drew to a close. “Can you present me to her, Caro?”

‘Which one?”

“By the living jingo, she is coming toward us.” He twitched at his jacket. “Daresay I look like an unmade bed.”

Caroline looked around and saw Lord Dolmain coming in her direction, accompanied by the young lady he had been dancing with when they arrived. She felt a little surge of triumph.

“Lady Winbourne,” he said, with one of his businesslike bows, but his eyes spoke a more intimate story as they gazed into hers. “I would like you to meet my daughter, Lady Helen. She is making her debut this year.”

“Your daughter!” Relief and surprise mingled inside her. “Good gracious, you cannot mean your daughter is making her bows.”

As she turned immediately to greet Lady Helen and present Mr. Newton, she failed to observe the flash of embarrassment that Dolmain was suffering. He felt like an imposter. He hadn’t told Caro Helen’s age.

Caro assessed the girl’s appearance and demeanor as she made the introduction. She was pretty and well behaved. Very well turned out, too, in a properly modest white gown, but those garish diamonds! They did not belong on a deb. They looked more like the bounty worn by the muslin company. Why had he allowed his daughter to wear them?

Newt wasted no time in detaching Lady Helen for the next set.