Lady Pamela

Lady Pamela

Amy Lake

PROLOGUE

–Luton Court, Bedfordshire; country estate of the Marquess of Luton

–
late February

“Splendid, splendid.”

Lord Jonathan Sinclair, the Marquess of Luton, nodded and smiled at his guests, feeling pleased. It seemed nearly the whole of Bedfordshire had arrived at Luton Court for the late February marriage of Miss Helène Phillips and Lord Charles Quentin. The marquess was inclined to take credit for the day’s events. Miss Phillips had been, until quite recently, the governess to Lord Sinclair’s children–and Lord Quentin was his best friend.

Affairs couldn’t be better, the marquess decided, smiling in satisfaction as he watched the wedding guests whirl about his ballroom. The ceremony itself had gone off beautifully that very morning–the bride blushing with happiness, the groom displaying a proper recognition of his own good fortune–and even Lady Sinclair, the marquess’s wife, had shed pretty tears.

’Twas a far cry from the fortnight previous, thought Jonathan. When both he and Lord Quentin had been absent from Luton, and the marchioness had accused Miss Phillips of theft, and the governess had been gaoled in the home of that horrid Sir Malcolm, and then Miss Phillips’s cousin–the Duke of Grentham–had arrived unexpectedly from the Americas, and–

Lord Sinclair’s thoughts broke off as he spied the duke across the dance floor, taller than most, his cropped hair in simple contrast to some of the elaborate arrangements of the other gentlemen. The duke’s manners were more rustic than those of the typical English-bred noble, but ’twas what one expected from someone who’d spent the past decade in the wilds of Virginia.        Although, Jonathan reflected, by all evidence dancing was not a lost art in that part of the world. Lord Torrance cut an elegant figure on the dance floor, and the ladies had swarmed around him as close as they dared, hoping to be the first to catch his eye as the orchestra began a waltz.

Which it was doing now. Who would be the lucky female? Jonathan wondered, craning his neck and hoping to spy out the duke’s choice. But it was difficult to recognize anyone through the mass of people crowding the ballroom, especially as the marchioness had chosen to add huge, potted orange trees–carted in from the hothouse on the backs of groaning footmen, and interspersed with the palms–as decoration. The greenery obscured every line of sight.

The marquess’s attention was drawn to a nearby branch, and he realized that his wife had managed, despite his
clearly
expressed wishes, to find fruit to tie onto the orange trees. Imported from Spain at enormous expense, no doubt. Jonathan’s irritation rose for a moment, then he shrugged. Celia would do what she would do. He returned his attention to the floor.

* * * *

Lady Pamela Sinclair loved to dance. She loved the waltz especially, with its elegant, simple progression of steps, in one sense repetitive, but in another sense . . .

In another sense, each waltz was unique. Each couple made it their own, each gentleman held his lady in a particular way, made each turn with his own rhythm, the lady’s skirts sweeping out
just so
.

’Twas nothing like the complexities of a quadrille, the steps of a
chaîne Anglaise
or a
pastorelle
–but, somehow, all the more individual for that. Lady Pamela thought she must remember every waltz of the past seven years, since receiving her permissions at nineteen. Every waltz, and every gentleman, whether they had danced well or ill.

She waited for one gentleman, now. Lord Benjamin Torrance had requested her hand for the first waltz several days ago, as they returned from a long walk through wet snow to the top of Crabtree Hill. The duke was staying at Luton until his cousin’s marriage, and he and Lady Pamela had developed a...an acquaintance.

She risked a peek over the heads of the crowd, waiting. Lord Torrance was not a shy man. He had been forthright in defense of his cousin Helène–knocking Lord Quentin to the ground on one memorable occasion when he thought Charles had insulted her–but his request for Lady Pamela’s hand in the waltz had been halting and unsure.

“Do you suppose–can one–is one allowed, you know–to inquire?”

She had eventually understood, and her answer came with as much blushing stammer as the duke’s request. Lord Torrance’s manners were never boorish, but he had been in the Americas for ten years and had little of the town polish displayed by other men of his rank. This delighted Lady Pamela. In the few weeks of their acquaintance, she had often found herself favorably comparing the duke–with his good humor and disregard of his own consequence–to the overblown, puffed-up society gentlemen who filled the ballrooms of the
haut ton
.

Her own brother and Lord Quentin were excepted, of course. Lady Pamela had long realized that she was drawn to the least
ton
-ish of the
ton
, those men who had abilities and interests beyond the latest fashion in neckwear, or drinking themselves into a stupor at one of the London clubs. Lord Edward Tremayne, the Earl of Ketrick, for example–

Pamela’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt. She did not want to think about the Earl of Ketrick. Not now, not tonight. She took a deep breath and willed composure, as the orchestra, finally, took up the strains of a waltz. She had waited for this moment since the day of Crabtree Hill. She had not bothered to examine her feelings any further, knowing only that she wanted to waltz with the Duke of Grentham more than she had wanted anything for a long time.

“My lady?”

The duke stood in front of her suddenly and swept out a bow. Lady Pamela curtseyed low and smiled up at him, so tall, so very handsome, the face that she had met almost nightly in her dreams.

“Your grace,” said Lady Pam. She took his offered hand, and they stepped out onto the floor.

 * * * *

The dancers parted for a moment, and Jonathan caught sight of Lord Torrance, discovering that the duke’s new partner was Lady Pamela Sinclair, the marquess’s own sister. His first thought was that they made a striking match. Both fair–the duke’s thick, straight locks were only a shade darker than Lady Pamela’s own–and both dressed in a marked simplicity of style. Lord Torrance wore a grey coat, and matching pantaloons without buckles, and he might, thought the marquess, simply lack knowledge of the latest London fashions. But the restrained elegance of his sister’s costume was characteristic, a conscious decision. Pamela Sinclair was widely acknowledged one of the most beautiful ladies of the
ton
, and furbelows-and-lace would only draw attention from her exquisite face and the cascading ringlets of shining, white-gold hair.

She was dressed tonight in a fine cloth of silver, the gown cut modestly and without ornamentation. The marquess saw his sister tilt her head up to the duke, saw her smile and make a laughing comment.

Jonathan frowned. He continued to watch Lord Torrance and Lady Pamela for several minutes, on and off, as the other dancers allowed. Something was amiss....

“Oye! Luton! You’ve a monkey with my name on it!”

Lord Sinclair turned to see Viscount Merrill and Lord Sawbridge, two of his more distant, and less reputable cousins. Merrill was holding up a deck of cards.

Jonathan smiled and, forgetting his sister and the Duke of Grentham, turned to join them in what he hoped would be a profitable game of loo.

* * * *

Something was wrong.

The Duke of Grentham was a marvelous dancer, his line controlled and smooth, his movements sure. Lady Pamela could find no fault as he led her through the steps of the waltz. Still, something was wrong. She saw it in his face, felt it in the pressure of his hand against her back, sensed it in the coolness of his replies to her attempts at conversation.

“The snow will soon be gone,” she had said, smiling, remembering a previous exchange. “If I am to teach you how to sled...”

“I doubt there will be time,” he had answered.

Lady Pamela’s heart raced, and her smile threatened to collapse. She thought she would succumb to panic if he would not smile back at her, if they must continue this way much longer, in a waltz that she had longed for so intensely during the waking hours of the past few days, and danced in her dreams.

Lord Quentin and his bride swept by, all blissful smiles, and Pam felt tears start to her eyes.
What has happened?
she cried silently.
What have I done?

Perhaps Lord Torrance felt ill at ease in such a crowded ballroom. Pamela clung to that thought, despite every evidence to the contrary. The duke had squired his cousin, the new Lady Quentin, through a
twiller
–a raucous country dance of purely Bedfordshire origin–and had laughed with everyone else when a third of the dancers ended up on the floor. ‘Ill at ease’ did not seem to describe the duke under any circumstances.

But perhaps it was the waltz itself, thought Pam; the permitted touch, the closeness to one’s partner.... She longed to ask him what the trouble was, what had brought an unaccustomed severity to the rugged planes of his face. She longed to ask him and was afraid.

Several times the duke seemed to be on the verge of speaking. Pam, feeling that the tension between them increased with each turn, began, uncharacteristically, to chatter.

“Jonathan invites half of England to his parties, I’m afraid,” she informed Lord Torrance. “And, of course, our cousins make up the rest. I’m sure you will meet everyone eventually, but–”

“Hmm.”

“The gentleman in the shocking red pantaloons is Lord Quentin’s stepbrother,” continued Lady Pamela. “His mother is Lady Susannah, you know, the Earl of Tavelstock’s second wife. Celia makes fun of his costume, but he’s really quite sweet. And
that
young woman–”

“Ah.”

Good heavens
, thought Pam.
I’m babbling like a schoolgirl.
Lord Torrance murmured an occasional assent, but said nothing else. Until–

“The viscount’s wife died a year ago midwinter, poor thing. He’s taken a mistress, and–”

The duke started violently. “A
mistress
?” he said, staring at her.

“Well...well, yes.”

Lady Pamela hesitated. Surely, the duke had heard of such arrangements, even in Virginia. But, of course he had. Just last week their conversation had touched on the marchioness’s own situation, prior to her marriage to Jonathan. Touched on it in a roundabout way, true, but Lord Torrance had certainly taken her meaning. The
ton
was full of gentlemen and their mistresses.

She must have mistaken the duke’s response, thought Pamela. A woman in her own position–past twenty-five years of age, standing on her own birth within the highest ranks of society–was allowed to speak of such things. The pause in their conversation threatened to become awkward, and she decided she must forge ahead.

“Lady Bessbranagh is a widow herself,” she said, taking a deep breath and refusing to flinch from the duke’s continued stare. “She and the viscount are a great comfort to one another.”

“A comfort?” replied Lord Torrance. He drawled out the syllables. “You–we–English seem very fond of our comforts, do we not?”

“I suppose...” Lady Pamela’s smile was now fixed, for the disapproval in the duke’s words could no longer be ignored. What could have happened? He had never before spoken to her thus, ever.

“Even the Earl of Ketrick, I believe, was fond of his comforts.”

Lady Pamela had not stumbled while dancing in her life. She did so now with a soft cry, and would have fallen if the duke had not moved swiftly, with an easy strength, to support her as she caught her footing.

“Are you well?” asked Lord Torrance.

Could she see a trace of concern in his eyes? Pam thought she saw something else, an expression new to her in the duke.

Disdain, perhaps.

“Yes...yes, of course,” she told him, trying to speak lightly, trying again to smile. “How foolish of me...”

“Perhaps you require rest.”

“Oh, no. No, I’m sure...”

They had stopped in the middle of the dance floor. Couples swept past on every side, but the music now faded from her hearing. Lady Pamela felt that she must escape from the ballroom immediately, or she would suffer the embarrassment of fainting publicly in the Duke of Grentham’s arms. The prospect terrified her, as she could not imagine making such a scene at Helène’s wedding. She had
never
fainted.

“Pamela–”

A swift movement, half-seen from the corner of her eye. Lady Pam felt herself lifted up and carried easily through the crush of dancers. She closed her eyes, knowing that any protest would worsen the gossip, and perhaps she did faint, for her next memory was of the cool garden breeze on her cheek. She rested for a moment, unmoving, content. Strong arms enfolded her, and she felt a gentle hand brush stray tendrils of hair from her forehead.

“Pamela.”

This
was a different voice from that of her waltz partner; soft, almost a whisper. She heard caring, and worry, something hidden deep...