Lady Flora's Fantasy (3 page)

"What would you wager we'll see them at the ball tonight?" asked Richard.

Sidney sighed patiently. "My dear old friend, when I agreed to accompany you on your holiday, did I not make it clear I had no desire to participate in any social events? I am here to enjoy the sea. Simply put, I want nothing more than to stroll along the shore, as we are doing now, and occasionally sit upon a rock and gaze upon the vast waters of the Atlantic while I contemplate...shall we say, the meaning of life."

"How dull, and really, Sidney, not why I wanted you to come at all. You went through hell at Waterloo, what with your wound and all. I invited you because of the parties, the fun, the women—not so you could sit on a rock and brood."

"Perhaps I'm not in a mood to converse with some empty-headed, husband-hunting young chits at a ball."

"I suppose, but I thought I could talk you into it," Richard answered brightly. "'Pon my soul, you've been a widower for how long?...going on two years now. Enough of mourning. At the rate you're going you're turning yourself into a hermit, and a cynical one at that."

"Thanks."

"Well, I hate to see you isolating yourself. What happened? You were in the thick of the Polite World before your marriage. Why can't you go back? I mean, really, Sidney, what is more important than your standing in society?"

Sidney shrugged. "Take me as I am, or else. I've long passed the stage where I think my life depends on how I tie my cravat."

"Not that you ever really cared." Puzzled, Richard shook his head. "I don't understand you. You'd do well with the ladies if you'd give it try. You're not all that bad looking."

"Ha!" Sidney retorted, thinking of his craggy face with its not-quite-straight nose and too-prominent chin.

"Well, looks aren't everything," Richard conceded. "Besides, if you so much as wiggled your little finger, the ladies would flock to you in an instant. Forget looks. You're titled. You're wealthy–much richer than I, though that will soon change, what with Dinsmore's poor health, and look how well I do with the ladies."

Sidney grimaced. "Do you have any idea how shallow that sounds?" He decided not to continue. What was the use? His friend would never understand. Coming here was a mistake, he thought glumly. "I should be home, looking after my estate."

"Hogwash. You have a perfectly fine overseer, so there's no possible excuse for hiding yourself deep in the countryside as you've been doing ever since...well, I feel you've grieved enough, and besides, you know very well—"

"I suggest you not finish that sentence." Sidney knew exactly what his friend was going to say. His problem was not that he had grieved enough, but that he had grieved more than enough for a woman he had never loved in the first place. His parents had arranged the marriage with Hortense, and he, being the dutiful son at the time, had allowed himself to marry a woman who wasn't a bad sort, but they had nothing in common. When Hortense died, childless, of typhoid, he was genuinely sorry to see her go. But when his parents, both now gone, started hinting he should find a new wife, he put his foot down. He firmly informed them marriage didn't suit him. Perhaps it never would, although he could not say for sure.

Unlike many men, he felt no driving need to beget sons. When he died, his estate could go to his uncles or his uncles' kin. Meantime, he kept busy managing his estate with the help of Louisa, his older widowed sister. When he wanted to relax, he traveled to London for a visit to Tattersoll's where he could view horses to his heart's content. He enjoyed hunting and fishing. He was an active and enthusiastic member of the Four-in-Hand Club where he spent countless enjoyable hours with Richard and other friends. Also, the occasional mistress came and went. Unlike some of his more foolish friends, he had never fallen in love with one of his Cyprians. Instead, long after the flames of passion had cooled to dying embers he maintained a friendship with each and every one.

"...so you must come to the ball tonight," Richard was saying.

"I would rather stay home and read a book."

"Stop being so bull-headed. Did it ever occur to you that you could be wrong? Why don't you see for yourself whether or not the tall one has a brain? Perhaps she's not so empty-headed as you might think."
Richard brightened as an afterthought struck him. "She knew who Homer was, did she not?"

Richard had a point. Besides, Sidney suddenly realized he would like to see her again, if only to assure himself he was right the first time. "Very well, if you insist, I shall go to the ball."

"Splendid." Richard was all smiles. "You might be pleasantly surprised."

"I doubt it."

"I'll even leave you the tall one and take the short. I guarantee, I'll soon have her eating out of my hand."

"But why, Richard?" Sidney asked, genuinely puzzled. "You have no intention of marrying any time soon."

"It's all a game, isn't it?" Richard answered, chuckling, "played for the trophy. For some men, the trophies are the heads of savage beasts mounted upon their walls. For others, it's elaborate collections of snuff boxes."

"And what trophies do you collect, Richard?" asked Sidney, already knowing the answer. This was the thing about Richard he detested. This was why Richard, contrary to what he assumed, could never be Sidney's best friend. As the years went by, he grew more debauched, more selfish, and though he didn't know it, at times came dangerously close to becoming an ex-friend.

"I collect broken hearts," said Richard, laughing.

How loathsome
.
Sidney kept quiet, not caring to admonish the man who had once saved his life.

* * * *

Flora's own eagerness surprised her as she and Amy, chaperoned by their mother and Lady Constance Boles, mounted the steps of the Brighton Assembly. The thrill of attending balls had long since faded, but tonight was different. The weariness, the disillusion, were gone. With Lord Dashwood much on her mind, she felt as if she were about to attend her very first ball. With the help of Baker, her caustic lady's maid, she had enjoyed donning her prettiest ball gown. Of white satin, it came direct from Paris and featured lovely clusters of pink roses and bands of white lace around the hem. Even Baker admired it and outdid herself sweeping Flora's auburn curls into a Grecian coiffure, pinned with a comb of feathers and pearls.

All the while Flora was getting ready, the image of that handsome face she'd seen on the beach kept popping into her head. A little tingle of excitement coursed through her as she thought of the conquest ahead.

What was he like?

Would she be disappointed?

She reminded herself she had been attracted to many a man before, only to discover that when she got to know him, she found he possessed some major fault. One was too self-centered; another just plain dull; another mean-spirited, while another had a roving eye. No doubt Lord Dashwood was in some way flawed. What man was perfect? Still, wouldn't it be wonderful if he was? Once again she pictured him as he stood upon the beach, hair golden in the sunshine, his powerful, well-muscled body so completely revealed she felt a wicked shiver of excitement just thinking about it.

But what if he doesn't ask me to dance?

What a horrible thought. And a most unlikely one, too. She had always been popular, in great demand as a dance partner, so of course he would ask. Since when could she not attract a man with just the crook of her little finger?

Flora stepped into the ballroom and surreptitiously looked around. No Lord Dashwood. She had no time to dwell on her disappointment, though, for soon she was asked to dance and from then on never sat down. She danced to a polonaise, then a set of country dances, all the while trying to prevent her gaze from wandering to the front entrance, but to no avail. At last, when she had about decided Dashwood wasn't coming, she spied his handsome figure at the entrance, accompanied by his friend—what was his name? She could not recall.

Had Dashwood remembered? Would he notice her? She closed her eyes for a moment, her mind drifting...

His gaze sweeps the room, as if he is looking for someone. Finally he finds her. Even across the ballroom, she can see his body stiffen–for only a fleeting moment, but long enough for her to know she was the object of his search. His gaze is fastened upon her as he crosses the room. He greets Lady Constance Boles, then asks, "Would you introduce me to this young lady?" She dips a cool curtsey as introductions are made. "Will you dance with me?" he asks. She nods and gracefully extends her hand. Soon they are whirling in a waltz around the floor, his azure blue eyes gazing longingly into hers. Finally, shaking his head in wonderment, he says, "What have you done to me? I have not stopped thinking of you a moment since I first saw you on the beach this morning..."

"Flora?"

Mother
. Flora exited her fantasy post haste. "Yes, Mama?"

"I do believe those two gentlemen we saw on the beach this morning have arrived."

Flora raised an indifferent eyebrow. "Do tell."

Lady Rensley, her thin self encased in black, snapped her fan shut disapprovingly. "Lord Dashwood is a fine catch, Flora, if ever there was one. Pray he will ask you to dance."

Amy clasped her arm. "Oh, look, they're coming this way."

It was all Flora could do to maintain her outward calm. Lord Dashwood really had found her. He really was going to ask her to dance
.

Soon Lord Dashwood stood before them, resplendent in a black, double-breasted wool frock coat with claw-hammer tails, breeches, gloves, a waistcoat, and white shirt with beautifully tied cravat. With graceful gallantry, he presented himself to Lady Constance Boles and asked for introductions, just as Flora had imagined. "Delighted to meet you, Lady Flora, Lady Amy," he said with his charming smile and bent in an exquisite little bow. She was positive his next words to her would be, Would you care to dance? So positive, in fact, she half lifted her arm to his, so that he could lead her to the dance floor.

But what was this?

Instead of asking her to dance, Lord Dashwood turned to Amy and flashed the same charming smile. "What a pleasure to meet you, Lady Amy. Might I have this dance?"

Feeling herself blush with embarrassment, Flora quickly lowered her arm and watched as the handsome viscount led Amy to the dance floor and spun her away to the lively melody of a waltz. Crushing disappointment overwhelmed her. She had been so certain! Then her common sense took hold. She saw how vain she was to assume he'd choose her first, over every young lady present in the dance hall. Obviously not every man in the ballroom was dying to dance with her, and that, she informed herself, should be a good lesson in humility. Still, she felt hurt—much more than she should have, given the circumstances. Good grief, she and Lord Dashwood had just been introduced, yet she felt like a love-sick schoolgirl.

"May I have this dance?" came a man's voice beside her.

Flora turned and through a kind of daze saw it was Lord Dashwood's friend, the one who had been at the beach this morning. Gratefully she nodded a yes. At this point she would dance with the devil himself rather than be obliged to stand, humiliated, on the sidelines. The orchestra struck up another waltz. "It appears we shall be waltzing, Lord...er..."

"Lynd," he said flatly and led her to the floor.

"So you are a friend of Lord Dashwood," she remarked as they started dancing, hardly aware of what she was saying. With a conscious effort, she forced herself to keep her eyes on her partner, although her mind was elsewhere.

"Lord Dashwood is a cousin of my neighbor, Lord Dinsmore. Also his heir presumptive since Dinsmore has no sons. Dashwood visited often when he was a boy. We're the same age and used to play together. I know him well." Lynd cocked an eyebrow and inquired, "And where do you reside, Lady Flora, that is, when you're not arising like—how did Dashwood put it?—Aphrodite from the sea, if memory serves."

She supposed he had intended the remark humorously, but she could not muster so much as a faint smile. "My family has a country home in Sussex. Also a town house in London."

"Ah, so you'll soon be enjoying another Season, I'd wager."

She bristled immediately. "I'm not planning on another Season. I have better things to do."

"And what do you do, Lady Flora?" His intense gaze drilled into hers.

The way he asked, she thought was rude. She wished she didn't have to dance with this man. Too late now, but at least she could make sure he would not ask again. "Well, I shall tell you what I don't do," she bluntly replied. "I have no talent for art so I don't paint. I don't sing, either, because my voice is so abominable that when I sing, our dog runs and hides. Nor do I play the piano because I hated it and rebelled after one lesson. As for needlework, I embroidered a sampler once. It was so terrible, my mother threw it away and never mentioned the subject again." There, that should show him. She gave him a smug smile. "And what do you do, Lord Lynd?"

He gave her a smug smile right back. "The proper answer to that is nothing, since we of the
ton
are all aware that ladies and gentlemen would not be caught dead doing actual work."

"So you do nothing, sir?" she inquired, none too politely.

Not hesitating, dead-pan serious, he replied, "I, too, cannot sing nor play the piano. As to what became of my sampler, its fate is too terrible to relate."