‘I forbid you to correspond with either of them,’ Lady Kingsbury said. ‘We cannot be too careful under the circumstances.’ So she does know her son believes I lost my virginity. ‘You will promise me, Averil.’
It was the first time the other woman had used her first name. ‘I will not write to Dita, if that is what you wish, ma’am.’
‘Then that must be the end of it. Yes?’
‘I promise.’ But Dita would come to London soon; she had not promised not to meet her, only not to write. And somehow she would return Dita’s gif
t to Alistair, that would not be corresponding. She could do that without breaking her word.
Averil was enchanted by the Farringdons’ ballroom with its swags of spring flowers, fountains and little sitting-out alcoves created with the cunning use of striped canvas. The whole room resembled a fête champêtre on a sunny day.
‘How delightful! I do not think I have ever seen anything so fresh and pretty.’
‘Hush, my dear. One should not appear gauche and over-excited. Do try for more decorum,’ Lady Kingsbury reproved as they made their way from the receiving line into the throng in the ballroom. Arriving too early was another fault to be avoided, apparently. Averil felt decidedly provincial.
There were scarlet jackets in abundance amongst the severe black and midnight-blue tailcoats, and several groups of naval officers as well. Averil scanned them and then tried to decide whether she was pleased or not that Luc was absent.
‘Ah, there is the dear Duc de la Valière,’ Lady Kingsbury said, nodding towards a group on the far side of the room. ‘In fact, half the émigrée community appears to be here this evening.’
With tacit permission to stare, Averil studied the dozen or so people in conversation around the plump figure with his chest covered in decorations and orders. The ladies were all dressed in what she had come to recognise already as the latest stare and she looked with envy at one particular gown of pale sea-green with azure ribbons.
Its wearer was deploying her fan with her eyes fixed on a tall, dark gentleman next to her. The group shifted a little and Averil found herself staring at Luc wearing civilian evening dress.
Every good resolution to forget him promptly flew out of the window. Averil let out a long breath and tried to understand how she was feeling. Happy, apprehensive, aroused—oh, dear, he still made her ache when she saw him and there were flutters of wicked sensation in the most embarrassing places. Her nipples hardened against the muslin of her chemise. But most of all, seeing him made her happy in a strange, painful way. She wanted to be with him.
‘What lovely gowns the French ladies have,’ she remarked, searching for a reason for her close interest.
‘Smuggled silks and lace,’ Bradon said. ‘Come, I will introduce you to the duc. One meets him everywhere, you know—a great crony of Prinny’s.’
It was hard not to look at Luc as they crossed the floor. Averil made her curtsy to the duc, salvaged enough of her unreliable French to reply to his rather effusive compliments and stepped back while Bradon continued to talk to the older man. The effort not to look at Luc was making her feel awkward. In fact, she thought, as she felt her whole body stiffening up, she probably looked as though she was too shy, or perhaps too stand-offish, to look at any of the others in the group.
‘Miss Heydon?’
Averil gasped, dropped her fan, reticule and dance card and felt herself blush peony-pink as she bent to scrabble them up. ‘Ouch!’ Her head made contact with another and she sat down, hard, on the floor.
‘Miss Heydon—’
‘Averil!’
Hands seized each arm and she was pulled to her feet feeling like a cross between a rag doll and a small child. On one side Bradon was a picture of disapproval, as well he might be. On the other Luc was biting the inside of his cheek in an effort not to laugh. At least the irritation with her that had gripped him last time they met appeared to have gone. She smoothed her skirts while she fought for composure.
‘Miss Heydon, I do apologise.’ At least he was speaking English, thank heavens. She did not think she could cope with this in French. ‘First I make you jump, then I almost knock you out. May I fetch you some lemonade, or help you to a chair?’
‘Miss Heydon will be quite all right with me, Captain d’Aunay,’ Bradon said, cutting across her own response.
‘Thank you both, I am fine, I assure you.’ She spoke to a point in the air midway between the two men. ‘It was the merest bump.’
‘In that case, Miss Heydon, might I ask for a dance?’
Beside her she felt Bradon shift as though he was about to intervene, then he relaxed and she breathed out. He could not have it both ways, she thought with a spurt of amusement. Either she was his betrothed and he could legitimately bristle at any man wanting her attention or she was merely a guest and, provided she was not accosted by an undesirable partner, he really had nothing to say on the matter.
‘I would be delighted, Captain. Or should I say Monsieur le Comte, as you are out of uniform?’ she asked as she proffered her rather crumpled dance card. Of course, if Bradon only knew it, Luc was absolutely the most undesirable partner for her.
‘Captain is less of a mouthful,’ Luc said, his eyes smiling into hers as he looked up from filling in the card in a way that brought the blush back to warm her cheeks. ‘I have taken the liberty of marking two sets including the supper dance.’
Bradon stiffened again, then remarked, ‘Your very first partner at your first English ball’, in such an insufferably patronising tone that she wanted to hit him.
‘Oh, no, not my first partner,’ she said, smiling wide-eyed at him. ‘See.’ She turned the card so he could see Luc’s initials against the third set and the supper set. The first two sets were free.