Page 18 of The Viscount's Pearl
He gave a rueful smile. “Always so blunt,” he said, but there was something warm in the way he said it that did not sound like the chastisements of her mother. “Will you dance?”
“I would rather not.”
This time he laughed out loud. “Then may I escort you for an ice, at least? Lord Barrington would be disappointed in us if we did not at least share some refreshment, in view of our connection through him.”
She took his proffered arm and nodded to Elizabeth, who was speaking with Lady Honora Fortescue.
“And now that you have been obliged to attend, are you beginning to enjoy yourself?”
“No,” she said. “I look forward to leaving as soon as possible.”
“Surely you have a list of eligible young men with whom your mother has insisted you dance?”
“I have already danced with the Duke of Buckingham. No-one cares about anyone else.”
He nodded. “That is true. I have met him, he is a pleasant enough fellow, quiet but thoughtful. I like him. He will make someone an excellent husband.”
“I doubt it will be me. He can have anyone he chooses.”
Perhaps he felt obliged to give her some small compliment. “Anyone who marries you will have a wife who will always be honest with them,” he began, then hesitated, before adding, “Besides, you are interesting to talk with.”
She gazed at him, assessing his words for some hidden slight but did not find one, he seemed to believe what he was saying. “I am not sure those are the qualities men seek in a wife,” she said at last.
“What qualities would you say they sought, then?”
She gave a rueful smile. “Prettiness, polite conversation, breeding and money.” She paused. “I have the last two, but not the first.”
“You are pretty,” he said, and he sounded surprised, as though the opinion had only just come to him. “But your conversation perhaps is not quite what young men are used to,” he admitted.
She nodded, pleased that he had not attempted to deny that she was at least right about her lack of polite conversation. “Have you seen Lord Barrington since we were last there?” she asked.
“No, though he wrote to me to say he feels more tired these days. I will try to visit him before Christmas.”
“In Margate?”
“Yes, he leaves Margate just before Christmas, as you know, to be at the main estate during the festive period. He takes most of the staff with him, since they are used to his ways and needs. A few stay behind to keep the house in good order against his return. Will you be visiting?”
Frances shook her head. “I doubt I will be allowed to escape all of this.”
“I will give him your compliments, then.”
“Thank you.”
He would have stayed longer, but Lady Celia Follett was turning her head to look for him, he had promised her the next dance. “I must go.”
She nodded and gave him a brief curtsey. “Goodbye, Mr Mowatt.”
“Miss Lilley.”
He left her and walked across the ballroom to Lady Celia. Lady Celia would have been one of the season’s brightest stars and most desirable brides, were it not for the fact that her right hand was oddly deformed. She had been born with a full-size thumb and little finger, but the three fingers in-between were only tiny stubs, like baby toes, incapable of much movement and of no use in daily life. Fortunately, two points stood her in good favour in avoiding spinsterhood. Firstly, she was the daughter of a duke, with a large dowry to accompany her unfortunate disfigurement, which might perhaps cancel out the risk that her children might be born with a similar fault. Secondly, she was already promisedin marriage, for her family had, at her very birth, already arranged a betrothal with the Earl of Comerford’s second son, who had at the time been all of ten years old. The two families had been very close and it had been agreed then, and always expected, that the betrothal would be held to, the wishes of the two parties involved set entirely aside. Their plans had gone somewhat awry, however, when the Earl had died earlier than expected and his sickly heir had followed two years later. Lady Celia was now betrothed to the Earl of Comerford. This year, Lady Celia had finally been brought out, and the expectation was that she might enjoy herself for one season, before being married in the early summer and would then be suitably settled with the Earl. She would be a countess. It was a small drop in title, but then that was to be expected given her deformity and, in compensation, the Earl of Comerford would be connected to a duke and have a very wealthy wife.
Laurence bowed. “Lady Celia. I believe I have the honour of this dance?”
Sparkling brown eyes and a ready smile greeted him as Lady Celia swept an immaculate curtsey and held out her right hand to be led to the dancefloor. She wore white elbow length gloves and as Laurence took her hand he could feel that the central three fingers of the glove had been stuffed with something. Her glove, then, had been adapted so that no-one could see the real shape of the hand, even though theton’s whispers had already seen and described it multiple times.
The music began and Lady Celia, a happy smile on her face, proved to be an excellent dancer.
“Are you enjoying your first season?” asked Laurence politely.
