Improper Ladies (30 page)

She led him farther into the crowded ballroom, while Lady Clarke stared after them with smoldering dark eyes. In truth, Michael was rather glad to be borne away from the woman. She was becomingly annoyingly persistent of late, sending heavily scented missives to his lodgings. Ever since he had begun to break the rules, in fact.

He stopped to speak to various acquaintances, to talk of other balls, routs, plays, and exchange
on dits
about people who were not here. As Lady Portman and her circle spoke of a certain Madame Varens who was performing at Drury Lane, Michael took a glass of champagne from a passing footman’s tray and gazed about him at the throngs of people.

As he was taller than most of the crowd, he could see over the ocean of dancers, the sea of potted palms. Near the invitingly half-open French doors was another knot of people, much like the group that had greeted him on his arrival, with one great difference. Most of this gathering were men, and they clustered about two tall, redheaded women.

One of them had her back to him, but the one who faced him he recognized as the Duchess of Wayland, and he immediately understood the draw for those men. The Duchess of Wayland, nee Mrs. Georgina Beaumont, was a vivid beauty, a famous artist in her own right, and, since her exalted marriage, a leader of Society. Michael had talked with her about art and writing before, and liked her very much, even though he had been oddly unmoved by the renowned “green fire” of her eyes. Tonight, she was like a brilliant, exotic bird of paradise amid pastel sparrows with her bright blue gown and sparkling sapphires.

The woman who was turned away from Michael looked as if she could prove to be no less beautiful, even if she was less colorful. Her hair, a river of red ringlets, was piled atop her head and anchored with a bandeau of pale sea green silk twisted with seed pearls. Her tall, slender figure was set off perfectly by a gown of pale green satin that just barely skimmed her waist and the long length of her legs. She tilted her swanlike neck as one of her companions spoke to her, and one long curl slid over her shoulder.

Michael was drawn to her, this mysterious, sea-clad woman. She seemed an oasis of serenity in the overcrowded ballroom, a poised, elegant, gardenia-like blossom that promised sanctuary from all the empty chatter, the high-pitched laughter, the hands pulling at his arms.

He murmured some excuse to Lady Portman, and made his way across the room, drawn by the woman in green. It was not an easy endeavor; he was stopped numerous times, obliged to make polite conversation. Yet finally he was able to break free, to skirt around the edge of the dance floor. He was very nearly to the crowd by the French doors, when the woman turned.

Michael almost dropped his champagne glass. Standing not fifteen feet away from him in the Portman ballroom, clad in that shimmering satin and pearls, was—Mrs. Chase.

For one off-guard instant, he was filled with a deep flush of pleasure—pleasure at seeing her again, when she had been so much in his mind of late. And she was more beautiful than he remembered, her hair a glory when released from those hideous caps.

Pleasure was quickly swept away by cold shock, and Michael impatiently shook his head, certain he was hallucinating. Mrs. Chase could not be here. He must be dreaming, hallucinating.

He closed his eyes quickly, and opened them again. She was still there, and she was undoubtedly Mrs. Chase. She was watching him, her head tilted quizzically as if she could not believe
he
was there, either.

Then her gaze narrowed, and her lips pinched together.

Yes. It was assuredly Mrs. Chase. Michael pushed away his bemusement, and pasted on a wry half-smile. He could do nothing but go forward. “Mrs. Chase,” he murmured to himself. “Fancy meeting you here.”

 

Whatever was she doing here?

Rosalind stared around her at the teeming ballroom. Once, long ago, when she had been a young girl, she had daydreamed about such scenes. Had imagined herself in beautiful gowns, surrounded by handsome swains who flattered her and flirted with her.

The tableau she found herself in now was indeed very close to those old dreams. Her sea green gown was exquisite, and there were more handsome gentlemen than she could count. When she first stepped into the ballroom at Georgina’s side, she had felt giddy, dizzy, almost overcome by the color and noise of it all—so very different from her daily life.

But too much time had passed since her girlhood dreams; too much had happened. The dreamy daughter of the local vicar had grown up, married, been widowed, struggled to build up her own school. She was no longer as starry-eyed as she had once been. She saw this crowd for what it was, a seething cauldron of gossip and decadence beneath a veneer of frothy glamour. For a brief while, though, rules—
her
rules—had held them in check, at least outwardly.

She was not here to make merry, she reminded herself. She was here merely to discover what had made the popularity of
A Lady’s Rules
wane, and to set things right. When she had done that, she would leave her borrowed finery behind and return to the quiet life of the Seminary.

That was truly all she wanted.
Truly,
she told herself, even as she sipped at the sinfully delicious champagne and listened to Georgina relate a scandalous
on dit
to her gathered friends. London life had no interest for Rosalind, really it did not.

She told herself this even as she scanned a gaze over the dancers, trying to detect any infraction of the rules that could be causing diminished sales. She saw nothing there—everyone was wearing gloves, and holding their partners at the prescribed distance. When she had first entered the Portman mansion, she had noticed one or two tiny things—a couple laughing too loudly, a man who had had a bit too much to drink—but nothing to give any alarm.

She had not yet seen Lord Morley or any of his cronies, though. That might explain all the good behavior this evening.

“May I fetch you another glass of champagne, Mrs. Chase?” the gentleman beside her asked.

Rosalind looked down with surprise to see that her crystal flute was empty. However had that happened? She
never
overimbibed. Then she noticed that she was indeed a bit light-headed. “Oh, no, thank you,” she answered, with a small measure of regret. It
was
very good champagne. “Perhaps a lemonade, though.”

“Of course! I shall return forthwith.”

Rosalind wasn’t sure he
could
return “forthwith” in such a crush, but she smiled at him gratefully, and half-turned to watch him thread his way through the crowd. She handed her empty glass to a footman, and resumed her inspection of the dancers and the crowds that clustered about the edges of the room.

Her gaze skimmed over a couple strolling arm in arm; a group of young misses, one of whom was Georgina’s sister-in-law Lady Emily; a tall gentleman in a midnight blue velvet coat . . .

Her gaze veered back to that gentleman. As she saw who it was, she knew he could surely not be called a “gentleman”—gentlemen did not go about trying to ruin ladies’ livelihoods! They did not flaunt themselves and their so-called poetry, as Lord Morley did.

And it was Lord Morley who stood only a few feet away from her, watching her as if he had never seen her before in his life. Almost as if—as if he
admired
her.

But that could not be. She was not some dashing, daring titled lady, the sort who Georgina said clustered about him. Perhaps he meant to mock her, then, by watching her so intently. To poke fun at her for being in a ballroom where she so obviously did not belong.

She frowned at the thought, and her head gave a warning pang. She started to turn away from the sight of him, to try to immerse herself again in Georgina’s conversation, but she stopped when she saw Lady Clarke come to Lord Morley’s side.

As Rosalind watched, Lady Clarke, the mother of one of Rosalind’s very own pupils, laid her hand on Lord Morley’s arm and stepped up close to him. Far too close for propriety. Lady Clarke went up on tiptoe and whispered into his ear, her ample white bosom displayed in a tiny orange silk bodice. Lord Morley placed his hand—his
ungloved
hand—on her waist. It was unclear if he was pushing her away or holding her there.

Rosalind found she could scarcely tear her gaze away from the ridiculous spectacle. But when she finally managed to look elsewhere, she saw that the people around them, far from being aghast, watched with smirks and smiles of scandalized satisfaction. No one cared at all that Lord Morley was breaking at least four—no, five!—rules.

Much to Rosalind’s shock, however, she found that it was not entirely the rule-breaking that pained her. She also felt a sharp pang of something that felt suspiciously like jealousy in her heart.

Her head throbbed in earnest as she watched Lord Morley’s hand slide from Lady Clarke’s waist to her arm. He said something quietly to her, and her red lips curved up in an enticing smile. Lady Clarke began to turn away from him, but Rosalind turned first, unable to bear the disgusting sight a moment longer.

She needed to be alone. The noise of the ballroom had risen to an infernal din, and even the orchestra was too loud and clanging.

“Do excuse me for a moment,” she murmured to Georgina. “I must go to the ladies’ withdrawing room.”

Georgina’s emerald eyes, so bright and laughing only an instant before, turned dark with concern. She laid her hand on Rosalind’s arm, her sapphire bracelets tinkling. “Is something amiss, Rosalind? Shall I come with you?”

Rosalind managed to give her a smile. “It is a slight headache only. I think I just need a quiet moment. You must stay here and enjoy the party, keep an eye on Emily. She is such a sought-after young lady.”

“Are you certain? I can make Alex leave his discussion of new farming techniques and watch his sister while I am gone. My husband needs to remember his social duties anyway! He is a duke, after all, even if he would rather just be a gentleman farmer!” Georgina laughed, but the soft glow on her face spoke volumes of her love for her “gentleman farmer.”

Rosalind felt another twist of envy, and she did not like it at all. How
could
she be envious of anyone, least of all Georgie, who so richly deserved her happiness? Or of Lady Clarke, whose impropriety was legendary? To be envious at all was horribly unladylike.

It was
not
envy, Rosalind told herself. It was simply fatigue. She was not accustomed to the social whirl.

“Oh, no,” she said. “Leave His Grace to his conversation. I will just go sit down for a moment and will be quite well soon.”

She gave Georgina what she hoped was a reassuring smile, and turned to make her way through the ballroom. Since she was of little importance in the grand
ton
scheme of things, it did not take her very long to make her escape—no one stopped her to talk, aside from one or two of Georgina’s friends. She slipped out the ballroom doors and∙past the butler, who waited to announce any latecomers.

The ladies’ withdrawing room was down the staircase from the grand ballroom, and along a quiet, dim corridor. The long expanse was lit only by a couple of branches of candelabra, and only the faintest echo of music and voices could be heard from the party.

Already Rosalind could feel the tight band of her headache loosening. She leaned back for a moment against the papered wall, and closed her eyes.

So
it is true
, she thought. Lord Morley
was
the one responsible for the diminished popularity of the rules. He was using his dash, his reputation as a rogue and a poet, to break the rules of good conduct, and others were following him. Not just young nodcocks like her brother, either, but people in polite society.

She did not know why she should feel such a sourness of disappointment at the realization. Surely she had known all along. Yet it was one thing to know; it was another to
know
, to see it with her own eyes.

Morley
was
a care-for-nothing, a slapdash poet who squandered the benefits and duties of his high position. She had always known that. And yet—and yet, he had been so kind to her that day in her office. He had brought her tea, had made her laugh.

She could scarcely reconcile that man with the one who had stood so intimately with Lady Clarke in the ballroom.

She was such a fool to feel so disappointed.

As Rosalind reached up to rub at her temples, a voice came echoing down the empty corridor.

“Good evening, Mrs. Chase. What an unexpected pleasure it is to see you here.”

Lord Morley.
Rosalind’s eyes flew open, and she turned to see him standing there, half in the shadows. He looked mysterious, almost insubstantial, with a single flickering beam of candlelight falling over his dark hair, his high cheekbones. She could almost have fancied that he was a ghost, the spirit of a wild pirate of old, come back to claim his treasure—his woman.

Unfortunately, he was all too real. And he had caught her yet again at her most vulnerable.

“A gentleman must never approach a lady uninvited at a soiree.”

A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior
, Chapter Five

 

R
osalind pushed herself away from the wall, staring dazedly at Lord Morley. She knew she was gaping like the veriest lackwit, but she could not seem to help herself. He was like a mirage—or a nightmare—standing there in the shadowed, quiet corridor. She had known she would see him here in London sooner or later; that was really one of the purposes of her visit, was it not? To somehow stop him from his rule-breaking.

The difficulty was, her plan was only half conceived, and she had no clue what to do with him now. She had not thought beyond arriving in Town, and doing
something
to save her situation. What, she was not sure, but she had imagined that a plan would occur to her once she saw Lord Morley.