Page 17 of The Viscount's Pearl
“I don’t know. Studying, travelling, I believe there was an uncle in Ireland he visited…” said her mother vaguely. “The Duchess said he was fond of astronomy.”
Frances didn’t respond.
“Astronomy is part of the natural world,” tried her mother desperately.
Frances raised her eyebrows.
“We will visit the modiste this afternoon. The Halesworth ball is in two weeks and the Duke will be there.”
Frances felt the threat and braced herself for all that was to follow. As she had feared, the following days involved milliners and modistes, leaving her on the day of the ball concealed beneath layers of fine green muslin and silk, her hair in the tightest of tight ringlets and under strict instructions to “tryand be appropriate.” She had not answered this plea, but her mother had found it necessary to add, “The Duke of Buckingham will not want to marry an odd girl, Frances, so try to behavenormally.”
The Halesworth ball, held by Lord and Lady Halesworth, was both large and well attended, being one of the first major balls of the Little Season, the first chance to see and be seen, to assess this year’s marriage mart and judge its worth. Boldly decorated with autumnal shades of flowers and berries, brilliantly lit with hundreds of beeswax candles which perfumed the air with a sweet honey scent, it was generally acknowledged by all attendees that Lady Halesworth had certainly done a fine job as hostess. Champagne flowed freely and there were pretty paper fans with tiny silver pencils provided for all the young ladies who would be dancing, listing the dances that would be played with an adjacent space for their partners’ names.
Frances shook her head at the champagne, which only ever made her feel dizzy, took her fan and silver pencil, then retreated as fast as possible behind two large palms in a corner of the room.
“Frances.”
She turned and her shoulders dropped in relief. “Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth Belmont, daughter to Lord and Lady Godwin, was a delicately built young woman, with dark hair and such a quiet voice that everyone called her “the mouse” behind her back. Frances had known her since they were children and had always relished her company, Elizabeth being one of the fewpeople she knew who neither wore strong perfume nor minded sitting in companionable silence while reading or drawing, one of Elizabeth’s favourite pastimes. Excellent at capturing a sitter’s features in a few simple strokes of charcoal, she would happily sit and sketch Frances while Frances read to herself or occasionally out loud. She was a couple of years younger than Frances and had only recently come out.
“Are you on the marriage mart this year?” Frances asked.
Elizabeth nodded. “My parents are determined I should marry the Duke of Buckingham. He is new to town, young, rich, handsome… and a duke. They can barely contain their excitement.
Frances nodded. “Mine too.”
Elizabeth gave a laugh. “And all the other mamas of theton, no doubt. Poor man, he will not know a moment’s peace until he is engaged.” She scanned the floor, then stiffened. “Here he comes now.”
A tall young man, elegantly dressed in the finest tailoring but with unfashionably long fair hair which brushed his shoulders, stood before them. “May I have the next dance, Miss Belmont?”
Frances watched as Elizabeth held out her fan and the new Duke of Buckingham wrote his name, before turning vivid blue eyes on her and bowing again. “Miss… Lilley? May I also claim a dance from you?”
Frances dropped him a curtsey and held out her fan. He wrote his name and she noticed his hand shook as he did so, wondered whether he, too, would rather not be here, before he bowed and stepped away from them. She glanced at Elizabeth to see what she thought.
“Shy,” said Elizabeth.
Frances nodded. Shy might be promising, she supposed, he might at least not be one of those loud men who stomped about with boots and gave their opinions when they were not wanted.But he had made a beeline for Elizabeth, already briefed by his mama as to whom he should pay attention, hesitating over her name. Elizabeth, freshly out after a ball held two weeks previously, would be considered the better catch, even though they were both daughters of viscounts.
“How was your first ball?” Frances asked.
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “Stiff. Mama was so very disappointed that the Queen was not holding a Drawing Room to present me that she made me wear court dress anyway. Can you imagine? Plumes and all. It was ridiculous, no-one else dressed that way. Only Lady Celia Follett seemed to enjoy herself, but then she’s already promised to the Earl of Comerford, so she doesn’t have to worry about finding a husband. She can enjoy a season of balls and parties and then be married. I think I envy her.” She pointed with her closed fan to a young woman dancing, whose face was alight with merriment at something her partner had just said. “She is always in fine spirits, I am sure she will make the Earl a happy wife.”
“Is he here?”
“Not yet. He will return for the opening of Parliament in November.”
Frances watched the dancers as they formed and reformed the patterns of the quadrille. If she could only watch dancing, it might be enjoyable, for there was something pleasing about the way the dancers moved between one another, repeating the same figures. But to dance among them was to keep perfect count of the moves and to interminably smile and nod, to sometimes talk to one’s partner, which many young ladies did with great charm and vivacity, but which Frances found exhausting, her bright smile soon turning to a grimace or an expression of burden. Despite not wanting to marry, she somewhat envied the Earl of Comerford and Lady Celia. A marriage already settled on while they were still in theirnurseries, no wooing required or expected. They could go about their lives and wait for the day when they were to complete the ceremony. There would be none of this false flattery, this simpering to catch the eye of some foolish young man and hope to chain him down as quickly as possible.
She sighed as she saw the first of her partners heading towards her. There was nowhere to hide, it would have to be borne.
The ball passed as they always did, a chore to be got through, one drudgery of a dance after another. The Duke of Buckingham was all but silent, although he performed their dance admirably, with neat steps and a gracefulness which Frances herself did not have. Frances imagined that if the Duke were to show any interest in her, their marriage would be all but silent, a thought that very nearly made him seem interesting, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere and that she had not caught his attention. Lord Radcliffe also made it abundantly clear he was disinterested in her, looking around the room for better options, while Lord Frampton made a gallant effort at pleasant conversation but fell silent after a while when her responses did not provide much to build on. Frances would happily have left early, but she could see her mother watching her, an anxious expression on her face, which only served to remind her that she was failing yet again.
“Miss Lilley! I did not expect to see you here.”
The familiarity of the voice brought a half smile to her lips. She turned to see Mr Mowatt before her and held out her hand without thinking, which he readily took and bowed over, placing a small kiss on her glove. She pulled her hand back, fearing she was being too forward, but his expression seemed pleased.
“I was obliged to attend,” she managed.
