By the night of the first of Almack’s subscription balls Lady Merion knew she had a major success on her hands. They were fully booked for at least a sennight and the invitations were still rolling in.
She had started preparations for the girls’ coming-out ball, for which the ballroom at Merion House would be opened for the first time in years. Squads of cleaning women had already been in, and redecoration would soon begin. The invitations, gold-embossed, had arrived that afternoon, and tomorrow they could start sending them out. She had fixed the date for four weeks hence, at the beginning of April, just before the peak of the Season. By then all her acquaintances would have returned to Town and she could be assured of a full house.
As she watched her granddaughters descend the stairs dressed for their first ball, both apparently unconscious of the positively stunning picture they made, she admonished herself as an old fool. Of course, her ball would be the biggest crush of the Season, but its success would owe far more to these two lovely young things than to anything she herself could do.
Dorothea, a vision in pale sea-green silk, lightly touched with silver filigree work, moved to kiss her on the cheek. ‘Grandmama, you look wonderful!’
Hermione unconsciously smoothed her purple satin. ‘Well, my dears, you are both an enormous credit to me. I’m sure you’ll create a considerable stir tonight!’
Cecily, shimmering in pale blue spangled gauze over a shift of cornflower-blue satin, impulsively hugged her. ‘Yes, but do let’s go!’
Laughing, Lady Merion called for their cloaks and then led the way to the carriage.
As soon as they entered the plain and unassuming ballroom that was Almack’s it was apparent that the Darent sisters’ arrival had been eagerly awaited. Within minutes their cards were full, with the exception of the two waltzes. Lady Merion had impressed on them that they were forbidden to waltz until invited by one of the patronesses, who would introduce them to a suitable partner.
The Season was now in full swing and the rooms were crowded with mothers and their marriageable daughters and gentlemen eager to view the new Season’s débutantes. Dorothea was thoroughly enjoying herself, being partnered first by Ferdie, with whom she was now on first-name terms, and then by a host of politely attentive gentlemen. Her grandmother, watching over her charges from the gilt-backed chairs arranged around the walls to accommodate the chaperons, noted that Dorothea had attracted far more than her fair share of attention but none of the more undesirable blades had yet sought her company. Talking to Lady Maria Sefton, she watched her elder granddaughter go down the ballroom in the movement of the dance, and then lost sight of her as the music ended and the dancers dispersed.
At the end of the ballroom, on the arm of the charming young man who had been her partner, Dorothea turned to make her way back to her grandmother’s side, knowing that the next dance was the first of the forbidden waltzes. A well-remembered voice halted her. ‘Miss Darent.’
Turning to face the Marquis of Hazelmere, Dorothea swept him the curtsy she had been taught was due to his rank and, rising, found that he had taken her hand and was raising it to his lips. The hazel eyes dared her to make a scene, so she accepted the salute in the same unconcerned way she had previously. Then her eyes met his fully, and held.
There followed a curious hiatus in which time seemed suspended. Then Hazelmere, becoming aware of her awkward young cavalier, nodded dismissal to this gentleman. ‘I’ll return Miss Darent to Lady Merion.’ Faced with a lion, the mouse retreated.
To Dorothea he continued, ‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet, Miss Darent.’ He placed her hand on his arm and deftly steered her through the crowd.
She had seen him among the throng earlier in the evening. He was dressed, as always, with restrained elegance in the dark blue coat and black knee-breeches currently de rigueur for formal occasions, with a large diamond pin winking from the folds of his perfectly tied cravat. She had thought him attractive in his buckskin breeches and shooting jacket, and more so in his morning clothes. In full evening dress he was simply magnificent. She had little difficulty in understanding why he made so many cautious mothers distinctly nervous.
Strolling calmly by his side, her hand resting lightly on his arm, she tried to ignore the light-headedness that had nothing to do with the crowd or the dancing and everything to do with the expression in those hazel eyes. Oh, how very dangerous he was!
Their perambulation came to an end by the side of a dark-haired matron. This lady, turning towards them, exclaimed in a cold and bored voice, ‘There you are, my lord!’
Hazelmere looked down at Dorothea. ‘Allow me to present you, Miss Darent, to Mrs Drummond-Burrell.’
Unexpectedly faced with the most censorious of Almack’s patronesses, Dorothea hastily curtsied.
Mrs Drummond-Burrell, on whom her surprise was not lost, was pleased to smile. ‘I expect Lord Hazelmere did not tell you I wanted to meet you. It seems a vast pity such a lovely young lady should miss even one waltz tonight. So, as he has instructed me, I will give you permission to waltz in Almack’s, my dear, and present Lord Hazelmere as a suitable partner.’
Although taken aback by the scale of his machinations, Dorothea had been expecting something of the sort since she had first realised he was present. She had sufficient presence of mind to thank Mrs Drummond-Burrell very prettily, bringing an unusually benign expression to that lady’s face, before allowing the Marquis to lead her on to the floor as the first strains of the waltz filled the room.
As this was the first waltz of the Season and many débutantes had not yet been given permission to dance, the floor was relatively uncrowded and the assembled company had a clear view of the dancers. The sight of the beautiful Miss Darent in the arms of Lord Hazelmere made something of a stir, and Dorothea, gently twirling down the room, was well aware that many eyes were directed their way. She did not dare allow herself to be distracted, fearing that he would instantly ask her some outrageous question.
As it transpired, she need not have worried. Hazelmere was, uncharacteristically, lost for words. He had thought her quite lovely in an old dimity gown with her hair down her back. Now, in every way perfect in one of Celestine’s most elegant creations, she was utterly stunning.
Within seconds of stepping on to the floor Dorothea realised that she was in the arms of an expert, and promptly ceased trying to mark time. She surprised herself by not feeling the least bit awkward at being once again in his arms, and responded to the movements of the dance with a confidence so transparent that it drew even more attention than her beauty.
As they moved gracefully around the ballroom Hazelmere finally remarked, ‘Does it bother you to be the cynosure of so many eyes, Miss Darent?’
Considering this unexpected question, she looked up into the hazel eyes and with the most complete self-assurance answered, ‘Not at all, my lord. Should it?’
He smiled and replied, ‘By no means, my dear. But permit me to tell you that in that you are somewhat unusual.’
Misliking where this line of conversation might lead, she rapidly hunted for an alternative. She saw her sister also dancing, in the arms of a man almost as attractive as Hazelmere. ‘Who is the gentleman dancing with my sister?’
Without glancing at the other couple, he replied, ‘Anthony, Lord Fanshawe.’
Puzzled by a fleeting memory, she finally recognised the man she had glimpsed in the inn yard. Her eyes came back to Hazelmere. ‘Do you know him?’
He smiled down at her. ‘Oh, yes.’ After a pause he added provocatively, ‘We grew up together, as it happens.’