Fairchild (22 page)

Thrown off pace by Sophy’s blunt rejoinder, Miss Lowell regained her stride. “Is there anything else interesting about you?”

“Not especially,” Sophy said. “Mine isn’t a terribly interesting story. Most people know exactly where I spring from, but they have the good manners not to inquire. Of course, I need have no secrets from a particular friend like you.”
 

Sophy opened her fan and turned her eyes towards the dance floor in time to see Alistair walking towards them. Passing Miss Lowell with a bow, he came to Sophy’s side. She couldn’t help exulting, just a little. Miss Lowell might be determined to wed a title, but she was surely as susceptible to Alistair’s good looks as anyone else.
 

“Dear coz.”

Sophy did not normally like Alistair’s lying endearments, but the chagrined look in Miss Lowell’s eyes made her gladly accept this one.
 

“Back again?” she asked.

“I’ve let the other gentlemen have a turn.” Laughing would ruin the game, Sophy knew, but she was sorely tempted. How ridiculous he was.
 

Miss Lowell looked like she was ready to swallow her tongue. She was not used to being ignored. Sophy decided it was an experience which would greatly improve her character.
 

“Will you dance?” Alistair asked.

Sophy declined without looking at Lady Fairchild. She was not allowed to waltz.
 

“May Sophy take a turn around the room with me then?” He spoke to Lady Fairchild this time, not her.

“Dear boy, you needn’t ask,” Lady Fairchild told him, closing her fan and tapping it against her shoulder.

 
He smiled and held out his hand. “Come, Sophy.”
 

“My,” she said, once they were out of earshot. “What will you order me to do next?”
 

“Dance this waltz with me.”

“Not on your life,” she laughed. “Lady Fairchild would skin me alive.” His eyebrows flew upward, so she added, “Even though I’m well below the notice of the patronesses of Almack’s, she won’t have me looking fast, waltzing without their permission. So I won’t be doing any waltzing, ever.”

“Shame,” Alistair said. “You’d make a delightful armful.”

She couldn’t hide her exasperated look. She was grateful, but wished he knew when to stop.

“Is it odious to you, walking about a ballroom with me?” he asked.

“Not at all,” Sophy said. “Being seen on your arm does me great credit. You do tend to draw eyes.”

“Flattery, Sophy?”

She made a bald reply. “Yes.”

“I will pay you a compliment in return,” he laughed. “Contrary to your suspicion—don’t deny it, I can read it on your face—I am not paying court to you at my Aunt’s behest. You are most charming, tonight more than ever.”
 

Robbed of speech, Sophy looked away, feeling blood rush into her cheeks. No one was close enough to hear. They had moved out of the crowd to the doors opening onto the terrace and the dark garden beyond. Sophy stopped dead. “It’s more than my life’s worth to leave this room,” she said.
 

“I so admire your frankness,” Alistair said. “You don’t know how refreshing it is. Do you think I’m a fool? We shan’t be missed. My aunt trusts me.”
 

“Should she?” Sophy faltered, as he whisked her outside. The air was cool after the heat of the ballroom, causing goosebumps to rise on her arms. Her heart thumped like she’d just finished one of the jauntier dances.
 

Alistair laughed. “I like you, Sophy.” Drawing her nearer, he lowered his voice. “I like you very much.”

It wasn’t fair, Sophy thought. She was no match for him. Surely he was about to pinch her on the arm and laugh at her for believing him.
 

“Are you going to let me kiss you?” he asked.
 

She could not think.
 

“Afraid?” he suggested, when she made no reply.
 

“Of course not,” Sophy snapped. Resolutely shutting her eyes, she rose on tiptoe, colliding their lips with bruising force. He retreated a step, laughing and rubbing his lip with his index finger.
 

“You don’t shy away from fences, do you?”

She hoped his lip hurt like blazes. “Don’t mock me,” she said, turning away to hide her face. The lights and music of the ballroom beckoned her and she moved to flee.
 

“Wait.” Alistair caught her arm. “You misunderstand—” but she didn’t stay to hear. Shaking free, she slipped past the French doors and wove through the crowd, out of the ballroom and up the stairs to the family rooms.
 

She shut herself in a dark room, clenching and unclenching her hands, willing the blood to drain from her face before she had to rejoin Lady Fairchild in the ballroom.

Sophy was still churning with fury and embarrassment the next morning. She had managed to avoid Alistair the rest of the evening, ignoring his attempts to catch her eye. By pretending to fall asleep in the carriage, Sophy had delayed the inevitable post-mortem with Lady Fairchild, but she would certainly want to discuss the ball today. Sophy could not speak of what had happened to anyone, least of all Lady Fairchild. What would she say if she learned her own nephew had taken her outside and kind of—almost—kissed her?
 

He wouldn’t have tried such a thing with a respectable female, she thought angrily. Then reason took hold of her. Of course he would. He had probably done the same thing with scores of ladies. Next time, she would introduce his face to her fist.
 

Next time? What a joke! She’d been so clumsy, he’d never want to repeat that experience. Which was all to the good, because she certainly had no intentions of allowing him to ever—
ever
—be alone with her again.
 

Summoning a surly Betty, Sophy stalked to Curzon Street before Lady Fairchild awoke, arriving unconscionably early to call on Henrietta. Fortunately, Henrietta had no questions. She was full of her own schemes. Sophy knew Lady Fairchild would not approve of a Covent Garden masquerade, but Henrietta was not so particular.
 

“As long as we have suitable escorts there will be nothing untoward,” she assured Sophy. “And we will be masked, so you needn’t worry that anyone will find you out.”
 

It was tempting. Lord and Lady Fairchild were attending a reception at Carlton House this evening, and there of course, they could not bring Sophy.
 

“It will be easy,” Henrietta said. “Tell her you will be here, having dinner with me.”
 

“I don’t have a costume.”

“Pfftt.” Henrietta dismissed this objection. “I have masks and dominos already. Take a look.” Henrietta passed Sophy a bandbox containing two masks buried under an assortment of feathers and scraps of ribbon. The long cloaks she spread out on the bed for inspection.
 

“I’ll take the pink,” Henrietta said, fingering the thin silk. “Mama always says it is my best color. You can wear the other.”
 

It was a brilliant turquoise blue. Sophy imagined herself whirling through the dances, wonderfully anonymous under her mask. “Percy agrees?”
 

“Haven’t I said so? I’ll invite Jasper. He owes me something, after leaving my party early last night.”

“All right,” Sophy said. With a bounce of excitement, Henrietta threw her arms around Sophy, knocking the bandbox off the bed and waking her sleeping infant. Scooping him from the cradle, she set him on the bed and she and Sophy set to work soothing him, dangling ribbons and bits of finery for him to snatch and drool over.
 

“You will have a famous time,” Henrietta promised. “Wait and see.”

Sophy returned home in the afternoon to change her clothes for evening dress, feeding Lady Fairchild a story about a dinner party with Percy and Henrietta. But when she arrived for the masquerade at their house, Sophy was greeted with an unpleasant surprise. Jasper was not there.
 

“He wouldn’t come,” Henrietta said, interpreting Sophy’s horrified look as one of surprise. “So I recruited Alistair instead.”

“Cousin Sophy,” Alistair said, urbane as ever. “I’m happy to be of service.”

Constructing a reply was impossible. She glared at him instead. “Is Jasper unwell?” she asked, turning back to Henrietta.
 

“He’s sulking over something, the beast,” said Henrietta. “It will pass sooner if we ignore him. Don’t you think, Percy?”

“You know I don’t interfere between you and your brother,” Percy said. “Take Sophy upstairs and get ready so we can be off. Did you bring a mask, Beaumaris?”
 

Henrietta whisked Sophy upstairs. “Isn’t it fortunate that Alistair could come? All the ladies will be ready to scratch your eyes out.”

Sophy’s answering laugh was weak, but Henrietta was too busy to notice, directing her maid to bring a pair of diamond drops for Sophy’s ears.
 

“They’re pretty,” Sophy said, turning her head before the mirror so the jewels could wink at her.
 

“Aren’t they?” Henrietta allowed her maid to affix her mask and rearrange her curls. The same service was performed for Sophy and then they were both put into their dominos and the strings tied. It was a good disguise, Sophy concluded, with the hood drawn over her hair. She felt bolder under her gold spangled mask, a fortunate circumstance with Alistair in the party. She would do her best to ignore him.
 

“Perfect!” Henrietta said. “No one will be able to guess who we are. Do you like my pink?” Henrietta twirled, sending her cloak spinning out, revealing the silver net overdress of her gown. Her mask had paste brilliants in the eye corners to match. It was impossible not to catch some of her enthusiasm.
 

“You look like you’re out to wound hearts,” Sophy teased, and Henrietta burst into laughter.
 

“Maybe just one,” she said. Taking Sophy’s arm, she led her back down the stairs. “Well? Would you know us?” Henrietta asked, pausing halfway down.
 

“Yes. You forget your dimple,” said Percy. “But I believe I’m more familiar with your features than most.”
 

Henrietta cast Sophy a despairing glance. “Fish for compliments, and what do I get? Mere fingerlings. You’ll have to do better, my Lord, if you are to keep me at your side this evening.” In grand state, she descended the stairs and attached herself to her husband’s arm. Sophy followed more slowly, studying the pattern of the brocade covered walls.
 

“Still angry?” Alistair whispered, but Sophy pretended not to hear. It was easy enough, in the noisy street. Link boys dodged with frightening speed between the carriages rumbling along the cobbles. Alistair helped her into the carriage, taking the seat beside her despite her frosty glance. No one seemed to notice. The mask had some disadvantages, she realized, but it would make it much harder for him, should he try again to kiss her. She twitched her skirts away from Alistair’s well turned legs, annoyed at having to sit beside him. It was a cousin’s privilege, but she and Alistair were not related, however convenient it might be for some people to think so.
 

Arriving at the theatre, Sophy hardly noticed the masquerade. She was busy plotting and avoiding Alistair’s eye.
 

Percy had rented a box on the lowest tier where they could eat their supper and watch the spectacle. Henrietta was already darting avid looks through the crowd. “Is that Lady Saxby? No, it couldn’t be. Even she wouldn’t damp her skirts like that.” Percy nudged Henrietta, throwing a significant glance in Sophy’s direction.
 

As Alistair settled into the chair beside her—positioned far too close for her liking—Sophy turned away from the masquerade to face Percy. “Lord Fairchild was telling me about the debate in parliament on Lord Elgin's removal of the Greek marbles. What is your opinion, my lord?”

Henrietta’s head whipped around so she could stare incredulously at Sophy.
 

“Rather a thorny issue,” Percy said, shaking his head. “It’s hard to see it as anything but thievery, and yet the local Greeks did not scruple to destroy the stones for lime . . .”

Furious now, Henrietta leaned over to give Sophy a sharp pinch. She was unrepentant. Letting Alistair speculate with Henrietta on the identities of the revelers, she fed Percy questions all through supper. She did not brave a glance in Alistair’s direction until dessert. His eyes were resting on her boldly and he wore a smile more amused than deterred. He raised his glass in a silent toast and Sophy returned her eyes to her plate.
 

When the waiters, dressed like saracens with red turbans and blackened faces, cleared away the plates, Henrietta rose from her chair. “I think it’s time we enjoyed ourselves,” she said with an accusing glare at Sophy. Percy, still mourning the marbles’ unfortunate state of preservation, missed his cue.
 

“Will you dance, Sophy?” Alistair asked, rising from his chair.
 

“I’m afraid something’s gotten inside my slipper. Do go ahead with Henrietta while I try to wiggle it out,” said Sophy.
 

Henrietta was radiating impatience; he agreed with a smirk. “When you are ready then, Sophy. There will be dancing for hours yet.”
 

Henrietta and Alistair exited the box, appearing moments later on the stage. Sophy watched them find a place in the set, noticing the masquerade at last. The backdrop behind the dancers was painted with a domed palace of crimson and yellow, surrounded by crazily leaning palm trees. Next to the dancers, this exotic scene paled to insignificance. They were garbed in domino cloaks of every hue and gargoyle-featured masks with long curving noses or court dresses of the previous century with face patches and powdered hair. She had never seen a real man in doublet and hose, looking as if he’d stepped out of a portrait frame. A lady in a dress with panniers too wide to pass through a door was somehow dancing the quadrille. How long had she had to practice walking in a frame that size? There was a woman in Roman costume dancing with a harlequin and a man in a Greek tunic with a sheepskin belted over his shoulders. Had he realized that dressing as Paris would be so uncomfortably hot?