Tuesday's Child (Heroines Born on Each Day of the Week Book 3) (16 page)

Harriet looked up into his green eyes. For a moment, she was lost in their depths. With a sense of unreality she recovered herself, but  not before she realised the only other gentleman whose eyes she ever drowned in were Edgar’s.

“Lady Castleton?” Dominic’s gentle voice drew her from her thoughts.

“Good day, Mister Markham,” she managed to respond with tolerable composure.

Settled on a chair opposite her, his long fingers wound around the stem of a glass of wine, he repeated his question. “Which is?”

Her eyebrows twitched. “I beg your pardon.”

“Which dance is dashing?”

“Oh, the waltz, “ Harriet replied, thrown into confusion at the thought of dancing it with him. “Of course, many think it is indecent. I disagree and so did my late husband.” She closed her eyes at the memory of rotating around a ballroom with Edgar.

“I would like to learn.”

“You are a clergyman; would it not be improper?” Harriet objected,  aware of hot colour flooding her cheeks.

Dominic laughed. “No such thing. Dancing provides exercise, besides, I am too hidebound to be prepared to learn how to waltz. Can you teach me?”

“Yes.” She indicated the pianoforte with a wave of her hand. “Gwenifer, would you be kind enough to play for us?”

“Yes, I shall, on condition you will also teach me,” Gwenifer agreed.

“I shall come here tomorrow, after I have nuncheon with my father-in-law, if it is convenient.”

Gwenifer clapped her hands. “Please do if my brother has no prior engagement.”

“Mister Markham?” Harriet queried.

A glint in his eyes, Dominic glanced at her. “If I had, ladies,  I would cancel it.”

“We have agreed. I shall be here by half past one. The dance is not difficult to learn. If it is agreeable to you, Three or four lessons on alternate days should suffice.” At the thought of being in the charismatic rector’s arms a thrill, she previously believed died with Edgar, ran through her.

Dominic finished his wine “I look forward to furthering my education,” he agreed, the expression in his eyes now merry. “Lady Castleton, Gwenifer, please excuse me, I must consult with my curate - not on the subject the waltz, which I fear would shock the poor man.”

Gwenifer tapped her toes on the floor while her brother left the room. “Lud, what would our neighbours think of a widow and their rector learning to waltz?”

“And of another widow teaching both of you?” Harriet giggled. “What do I care for their opinions?”

“Not much it seems, unlike my brother, who must guard his reputation. He is well aware of numerous traps set by young ladies, who hope to force a proposal of marriage from him.”

“Surely there is one lady whom Mister Markham favours,” Harriet probed, although the idea dismayed her.

Gwenifer sighed. “No, although it would please our parents, for it seems my older brother has not long to live. Dominic is the next heir to the Faucon title and inheritance.”

“I am sorry to hear your oldest brother is so ill.”

“Thank you.” Gwenifer shrugged. “Dominic knows it is his duty to choose a suitable wife and father an heir.”

An unanticipated pang unsettled Harriet. Even if she wanted to marry again, Mister Markham’s family would consider the granddaughter of a mere baronet and a squire unsuitable.

“Harriet, to judge by the expression on your face, you seem surprised, but you should not be. To be born into an aristocratic family is not always a blessing. Along with high rank and wealth comes duty, not only to one’s family, but also to one’s dependants.

“I don’t have the words to express how painful it was for me to defy my parents and marry the man I loved. However, I am fortunate because they have taken me back into the fold.”

Harriet looked into her friend’s eyes. “Please don’t answer my question if you don’t wish to. Have you ever regretted your marriage?”

Gwenifer shook her head. “Never.”

“Neither did my mother regret hers, although the hardships she endured following the drum are almost unimaginable to anyone brought up in luxury.” Harriet gestured to the view from the window. “Oh, how serious I have become on such a beautiful, sunny day. Have you chosen your gown for the ball?”

Gwenifer nodded. “Yes, there is an illustration in La Belle Assemble of a silk gown, which I have ordered from my dressmaker in London, who has my measurements. Mamma’s abigail is skilled with the needle so she can make any necessary adjustments. I already have elbow-length white kid gloves, an ivory fan and a pair of silk slippers.” She sighed. “Although I am a widow, I enjoy dancing, so I hope my brother will not be the only gentleman to invite me to dance. “Oh,” she covered her mouth with her hand, “I am sorry. The ball is in your honour. I did not mean to imply your dance card will not be filled although you are also a widow.”

“There is no need to apologise.” Harriet stood. “It grows late. I must take your leave. I look forward to seeing you and Mister Markham tomorrow.”

Chapter Thirteen

After nuncheon with her father-in-law, Harriet retired to her dressing room, where Plymouth helped out of her morning gown.

Dressed only in a chemise, stays that pushed up her breasts, lace-edged pantaloons, and a petticoat, Harriet caught her lower lip between her teeth. What should she wear?

“The striped cream and primrose yellow muslin, Plymouth.”

Her abigail took the gown out of the wardrobe.

“Perhaps the forget-me-not blue silk,” Harriet murmured.

“Or the new dog-rose pink cambric with the dark pink satin sash, my lady?”

Why was she so indecisive? After all she was only going to teach Mister Markham and Lady Gwenifer to waltz. At the thought of his hand on her waist she took a deep breath and tried to ignored an excited frisson.

“An excellent suggestion, I shall wear the pink gown with the satin spencer which matches the sash.”

In silence, Plymouth, assisted her with her toilette. Completed, the abigail stood back. Her nod indicated her satisfaction, before she handed Harriet a pair of white kid gloves and a beaded reticule.

The abigail scrutinised her from head to toe. A smile interrupted her usual, bland expression. “If I may make so bold, my lady, you look elegant” She glanced out of the window. “The sun’s shining and there’s not a cloud in the sky, so you need a parasol.”

Harriet pressed her lips together to prevent herself from laughing at the memory of army camps. In summer there had been little protection from the brazen sun, so she had worn long-sleeved gowns and broad brimmed hats, and known how to protect her skin with a cream made from calendula and the best quality olive oil. Now, she preserved her complexion with rose milk, which Plymouth concocted from olive oil, a quart of rose water and a few drops of oil of tartar.

Did she have everything she needed? No she did not. To dance with a gentleman she required elbow length gloves.

* * *

Dominic gazed at his reflection in the pier mirror in his dressing room. Despite the excellent cut of his black coat, waistcoat, and  pantaloons, the severity of his clothes, relieved only by silver buttons and starched white linen bands at his throat, depressed him. Vanity, vanity, he chided himself. It is not one of the seven deadly sins, though it could be categorised as pride. Never mind, black is suitable for a clergyman.

He brushed his hair and applied pomade to subdue his curls, with a regrettable tendency to riot, particularly over his forehead.

To deny he presented a fine figure, maintained by exercise, would be false modesty. What did Lady Castleton think of him? Was she merely grateful, or did she really like him? Did she regret agreeing to teach him how to waltz? At the thought of putting his hand on her waist, and surrendering to the intimate pleasure of the dance, his breath came a little faster than usual.

Someone knocked on the door. “Come in,” he called, turning around so he would not be discovered scrutinising his appearance.

Gwenifer entered the room before he could do so.

“Tut tut, are you peacocking?” she teased. “Come downstairs, it is nearly time for Lady Castleton to arrive.”

At the sight of his sister wearing an old, plain cream muslin morning gown with a sash in the same colour beneath the short bodice, he raised his eyebrows. “Would another gown not be more appropriate for our dance lesson?”

Rueful, Gwenifer looked down at her skirt. “Yes, it would. If only old Mrs Bates had not called after nuncheon. She is so overcome by the news of her son’s death in America that it would have been cruel to fob her off. Now, if I am not to keep Harriet waiting for me to play on the pianoforte, it is too late to change my gown.” Her eyes narrowed. “It is unusual of you to notice what I am wearing.” She pursed her lips. “Lud, have you made such an effort to tame your curls to impress Harriet? Don’t poker up. I have warned you that our parents would consider Harriet is, ‘beneath your touch.’ She waved an admonitory hand at him. “No,  I knew you in the nursery so don’t try to intimidate me with a thunderous scowl.”

At the sound of a carriage, his sister looked out of the window overlooking the lane. “Harriet has arrived. We must go downstairs to receive her.”

After Dominic picked up a pair of white gloves, he opened the dressing room door and stood back to allow Gwenifer to precede him. She paused to gaze up at him. “Although I like Harriet, even if you resent it, I have given you good advice concerning her. Whether or not you accept it is up to you.”

Pulling on his gloves, Dominic followed his sister down the stairs to the hall in time to see Lady Castleton step indoors.

Each time he saw her his admiration increased. Today, gowned in a delicate shade of pink that matched her softly rounded cheeks, one hand poised on the tip of an unfurled parasol, she presented a charming picture, one which Dominic knew he would always remember.

While Gwenifer and Harriet exchanged greetings, lost in appreciation of their guest, he paid no attention to their words, while her ladyship handed her hat and parasol to the maidservant.

His sister rapped him on the arm. “Dominic, what are you thinking of? Don’t stand there like a statue. Say good day to Harriet.”

Harriet raised her eyebrows, obviously amused because his sister chided him in the manner she used when they were children.

He bowed. “Good afternoon, Lady Castleton. See how I am chivvied in my own house.”

“Chivy? Who else is here to remind you of your manners?” Gwenifer asked.

Harriet inclined her head. “Good afternoon, Mister Markham” she greeted him, laughter in her voice.

“Come into the drawing room, Harriet. The carpet has been rolled back and I have selected sheet music. Shall I play Barley Mow, or would you prefer me to play either The Duke of Clarence or The Brighton Waltz?”

“The Brighton Waltz, which is a delight to dance to,” Harriet replied. “When you play it, please mark time for us by emphasising the first note of each bar.”

Gwenifer sat on the stool in front of the pianoforte. “Harriet, I cannot imagine what you think of this shabby room. After the lesson perhaps you would be kind enough to look at the samples of wallpaper and fabrics, which have been sent from London.” She arranged the sheet music. “I think light colours for the walls and rich ones for the curtains and carpet would be stylish.” Hands poised over the keyboard, Gwenifer added, “Please tell me when to begin playing.”

“I shall, after I explain the dance steps and movements. They must be graceful, and in perfect time to the music. Gwenifer, after your brother has danced with me, perhaps the two of you can practice together while I play. Mister Markham, please face me.

“Let us practice the Demi Sautien, the half support. Mister Markham, when the music begins put your right hand around my waist. Now, while I put my left hand on your shoulder, please take my right hand in your left one.”

Not immune to her charms, Dominic obeyed. The delicate fragrance of her perfume, which mingled vanilla, the sweet scent of lilies of the valley, and an undertone of something spicy, overwhelmed his senses. Her close proximity, the warmth of her body through her gown thrilled him.

Lady Castleton tilted her head. She gazed into his eyes, blushed, and quickly looked down, perhaps reading something in them she did not wish to understand.

“Shall we practice the mutual support, Le Sautien Mutuel?” Harriet asked breathlessly. “With our right hands around each other’s waists we may either put our left hands behind our backs, or put them on each other’s shoulders. To begin with, I suggest the latter.”

* * *

Why, Harriet asked herself,  was she somewhat breathless? Until now, although she admired many gentlemen, only Edgar had stirred her sensibilities when she waltzed.

Aware of the rector’s charisma. she peeped up at his face . Surprised by her shyness, she looked down. “The next position is Le Sautien Entirement or full support,” she explained, even more breathless. “While I put my hands on your shoulders, please put your hands on each side of my waist while I put mine on your shoulders. Good. At this point in the waltz a variation on  Le Sutien Entirement is to clasp our right hands above our heads while our left hands remain at our sides. Shall we practice it?”