Julia London (31 page)

“Michael!” She frantically clutched his sleeve. “Am I properly fastened?”

Michael very smoothly ran his hand down her spine until he reached the small of her back, where his hand lightly rested. He leaned down to her. “You are completely fastened, sweetheart. They are just admiring your gown.”

“Or their feed,” she murmured. Chuckling, Michael guided her forward through the crush to the top of the stairs where the Delacortes were receiving guests.

Abbey momentarily forgot her anxiety when they reached the landing where their hosts stood. The house was magnificent; candles blazed in crystal candelabras hanging from huge plaster medallions across the ballroom. The walls were covered with silk paper, except one, which was covered from floor to ceiling with mirrored panels that had the effect of making the room look even larger than it was. Thick carpets covered the floors, but the dance floor was of marble tile. Below them, women in fantastically bright pastel gowns and men in formal black attire paraded about. At one end of the ballroom was a small orchestra situated on a platform just above the dancers, partially covered with a row of potted plants. The music could just barely be heard above the din of the crowd. On the other end, four sets of open French doors led out onto a balcony. Of all the places Abbey had been in her lifetime, she had never seen so many people squeezed into one place.

Michael nudged her, and she became aware that he was speaking. She quickly turned her attention to the couple in front of them. Lady Delacorte was a short, squat woman with spectacles and a large ostrich feather protruding at an odd
angle from her silver hair. Her husband was just the opposite; tall and lean, his eyes sparkling beneath his bald crown.

“A pleasure,” Abbey heard herself say, then dipped into a perfect curtsey.

“Lord Darfield, I did not for one minute believe the announcement in the
Times
, but as I live and breathe, it appears you have gone and got yourself married!” Lady Delacorte chirped cheerfully. “Lady Darfield, welcome.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Abbey said with a polite nod.

Lord Delacorte grabbed her hand and brought it to his thin lips. “Well done, Darfield,” the older man said as he smiled down at Abbey.

“I would humbly agree.” Michael laughed.

“You are from America, no?” Lord Delacorte asked, turning his twinkling eyes to Abbey.

“I am English, my lord, but I last resided in America.”

The man lifted his wiry brows. “English?”

“My wife has had the good fortune to live a variety of places around the world, and therefore her British accent has been somewhat subdued,” Michael explained.

“I daresay that’s the
only
thing that has been subdued.” Lord Delacorte laughed and glanced knowingly at Michael. Abbey blushed; Michael said something more to the Delacortes and moved her toward the butler who was announcing the guests. There were three couples in front of them, and Abbey had the misfortune of being in a position to stare down at the ballroom while they waited to be announced.

She was unaware that she had a vice grip on Michael’s arm, and when he glanced at his wife, he saw the terror that widened her eyes.

“I was at a ball very much like this once,” he said impassively. Abbey’s eyes flicked to him for a brief moment, then back to the crowd below them.

“The right honorable Earl and Countess of Wellingham,”
the butler called.

“It was several years ago, when men still wore knee britches. I recall a particularly stout chap who wore a pair of
purple satin knee britches, a bright green waistcoat, and a yellow coat. He looked like a fat parrot,” Michael continued.

“Mr
.
and Mrs. William Saunders, and Miss Lillian Saunders.”

Abbey’s grip tightened on his arm.

“The man had the grave misfortune to step on a woman’s foot at the top of the stairs,” Michael said as he stepped forward and handed the butler the engraved invitation. “She screeched and frightened the poor man to death, and when he jumped away from her, he tripped.” Abbey thought he was mad to be telling her this story now, of all times, and she frowned up at Michael.

“The right honorable Marquis and Marchioness of Darfield!”
The din below them lessened noticeably as all eyes turned toward the top of the stairs.

“He bounced like an Indian rubber ball all the way down the stairs and ended in a colorful heap right at the feet of the Prince Regent!” Abbey couldn’t help picturing the ridiculous scene and laughter bubbled from her.

She thought she sounded hysterical.

Michael thought she sounded lyrical.

The crowd saw an elegantly beautiful woman laughing serenely with her husband as they descended the stairs.

The minute they reached the ballroom floor, the crowd seemed to move as one toward them, all eager for an introduction.

“Brace yourself, darling,” Michael muttered, and immediately began to greet the faces swarming around them. Abbey swallowed hard. Miraculously, she managed to respond appropriately to everyone Michael introduced. There were so many that the names and faces were soon nothing more than a blur. It seemed that the men generally greeted her bosom and the women greeted her behind forced smiles. Throughout the ordeal, Michael stood close by, keeping her calm with subtle touches to her elbow, her hand, or her back. At one point, she turned and bestowed a grateful smile on him; his gray eyes sparkled in response.

Someone put a glass of champagne in her hand, and Abbey
drank it quickly. Another glass appeared, and Abbey drank that, too. The bubbly wine helped; she began to feel the tension in her body ease a bit. Even her toes began to tingle. When a waiter came by, she helped herself to another glass and was halfway through it when she noticed Michael had raised a questioning brow. She smiled sweetly and downed the rest of it.

“One would think it was the Queen of England herself judging by the fawning crowd.”

Abbey turned and grinned at Sam. “Thank God you are here!” she whispered frantically.

“The crowd’s a little overbearing, is it?” He chuckled and moved to stand between her and an overtly curious group of young debutantes.

“A bit.” She sighed.

“It’s quite understandable. Michael has always been very intriguing to this set, even more so now, but fear not. I have come to save you,” he whispered with a wink. He looked over her head to Michael, who was engaged in a boring conversation with the elderly Viscount Varbussen.

“Say there, my good Lord Darfield, if you aren’t going to dance with your wife, may I?” he asked loudly enough for several to hear.

Michael grinned. “I think not, sir. I am quite confident Lady Darfield has saved her first dance for me,” he responded to the delight of the circle around them.

Michael nodded politely to Varbussen, and, with apologies to the small crowd around them, he took Abbey’s champagne flute and handed it to Sam, then led her to the dance floor.

And it was no easy feat. They were stopped no less than three times by guests who acted as if they were Michael’s long-lost cousins. When they at last reached the center of the dance floor, Michael bowed to her as was customary, and with a wink, Abbey curtsied. She opened her mouth to speak, but the music began and Michael quickly swept her into a waltz. He looked down at those remarkable, slightly unfocused violet eyes and felt a strong stirring in his loin.

“They cannot keep their eyes off you, sweetheart,” he remarked sincerely.

“Ha! You mean they can’t keep their eyes off my bosom, or this unfashionable dress.” She blew away a tendril of hair that had worked its way free of her coif only to stubbornly drape her eye again.

“What are you talking about? Your gown is beautiful.”

“Miss Stanley remarked she was surprised I found the fabric, since it was not at all a fashionable color this Season. Lady William agreed, and said that she hadn’t seen such an unusual design, and was surprised I could find a modiste to sew it,” she said, grumbling.

“I see.” Michael smiled down at her. “No wonder you are frowning. It’s not easy being the object of envy, is it?”

“Envy?” She looked so innocent, he could not suppress his chuckle.

“Those women are insanely jealous, and will grow even more so when the objects of their affections leave them standing alone to clamor around you, begging for the opportunity to stand up with you,” he said as he pulled her closer and moved toward the orchestra.

“Oh, no. I’m not dancing with anyone but you!” she said with great authority.

“Oh, yes you are,” he said cheerfully. “As much as I would like to, I can’t allow you to snub every man in here. You must dance.”

“Oh, no! No, no, I do not want to do that,” Abbey insisted with a shake of her head that knocked the strand of hair across her eye again.

“What’s wrong? You dance beautifully!”

“I don’t know them, Michael! What if I say something wrong?” she whispered frantically.

“My dear, you are far too charming to offend anyone. Do not fret so, everything will be all right,” he assured her, then pressed his lips against her cheek, well aware that the affectionate gesture sent up another round of frantic tittering among the onlookers.

“I mean,” she whispered, pausing when Michael pulled
her into his chest to avoid a collision with another couple, “what if I say something that they will talk about? I don’t want them to
talk
about us.”

“If they are talking about us, darling, it’s because they can’t believe my good fortune.”

She sighed and smiled up at him. It was a beautifully charming, trusting smile. God, but she was enticing. And everyone in that ballroom watching them dance thought so, too.

When the dance ended, Abbey did as she was told, but not before she helped herself to another glass of champagne. Michael nudged Sam and inclined his head toward Abbey.

“If you would be so good as to help me keep an eye on my wife, Hunt. She is attracting men like moths to a flame and has discovered a liking for champagne that may match her thirst for ale,” he said dryly, and Sam chuckled with a nod of agreement.

“I shall do my best, but the line is already forming for a chance at her dance card,” Sam said before dutifully pushing his way through a growing crowd and asking Abbey to stand up with him.

Abbey enjoyed dancing with Sam. Like Michael, he was a very polished dancer and regaled her with quips about the
ton
, keeping her laughing as they whirled around the floor.

When Sam escorted her from the floor at the conclusion of the dance, she was intercepted by the Earl of Westchester. He was shorter than she, and while they danced, the earl, who was inebriated, stared blatantly at her bosom.

“They say you come from American money,” he inquired of her bosom.

“No, my lord, I believe you misunderstood.” Abbey sighed wearily. “They say I come from American monkeys.” Just as she had suspected, the earl was so enthralled with the swell of her breasts that he did not hear her outrageous response. She tried to ignore the lecherous old goat, praying for the dance to end, and caught a glimpse of Michael dancing with another woman. She did not like the feeling it gave her. Of course Michael would be expected to dance with other
women, she knew that. But the sight of him smiling down at another woman made her chest tighten.

She lost sight of Michael during the next two dances. After the earl, a very kind, elderly gentleman was her next partner. Abbey liked him instantly.

“I knew your father, child, and was a great admirer. I happened upon him in India several years ago,” the old Baron de Sevionton said.

“Truly?” Abbey asked, warmed by the memory of her father.

“Indeed. He was quite handy in assisting me with a small problem there. Suffice it to say I needed to get out of port quickly, and had it not been for your father,” he said, his rheumy eyes glistening, “they might have found me dangling from the masts. If you ever are in need of anything, my dear, you must call upon me. I owe your father for his help in that
very
indelicate matter.” Abbey thanked him for his kind offer, wondering what in the world a kind old gentleman like himself could have done to warrant such assistance.

When the baron finally escorted her from the floor, she caught sight of Michael, his shoulder propped against a pillar, watching her above the heads of the admirers circled about him with a peculiar smile on his face. She beamed and began to make her way toward him when someone stepped in her path.

Mildly irritated, she slowly looked up to see Malcolm Routier smiling down at her, his yellow eyes glinting as they swept her face.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Lady Darfield. Might I have the favor of a dance?” he asked in a low, rich voice.

Abbey glanced past his shoulder to Michael, whose smile had faded. She was uncertain what to do; she had no desire to dance with Routier but thought it improper to refuse, as she had a space on her dance card. She drew her bottom lip between her teeth as she peered at Michael, then glanced again at Routier. Her sense of propriety had been dulled by the champagne, but she knew it simply would not do to refuse him.

“Perhaps another time,” he said, his disappointment evident.

“Oh, no, Mr. Routier, I did not mean to imply—I would enjoy it very much.” She forced herself to smile at him. He smiled, too, but it did not quite reach his eyes. With a quick, helpless glance to Michael, Abbey reluctantly returned to the dance floor.

It was a waltz, and Abbey felt a slight revulsion when Routier took her in his arms. She was puzzled at her reaction, for she had not felt this way when she had danced with other men. Yet there was something about Malcolm Routier that she could not quite identify, something that made his attractive features almost loathsome to her.

“Are you enjoying yourself this evening?” Routier asked politely.

“Oh, yes, very much so,” she replied with feigned enthusiasm.

His gaze flicked to her lips. “You have caused quite a stir. Everyone is talking about Lady Darfield,” he said. “You are what one would call an instant success.”

Abbey gamely attempted to smile. “Forgive me, Mr. Routier, but I cannot agree. I’m not sure what the fascination is all about, but one never knows what to expect when one is new to a particular setting, do you think?”