Page 19 of The Viscount's Pearl
“I am,” she said. “I love to dance, and my Papa has been generous with my clothing allowance, as you can see.”
She was indeed dressed in the very latest fashion, with adelicate silk dress made in a deep crimson which suited her black hair and dark eyes.
“And are you enjoying the season, Mr Mowatt?”
He was distracted by the sight of Frances as they passed her, who was fanning herself, even though the room was not very warm. Laurence wondered if the fanning motion was similar to the rocking and swinging that she seemed to enjoy. Perhaps it was a way to release her pent-up feelings at being forced to attend such occasions.
“Mr Mowatt?”
“I do beg your pardon,” he replied. “My eye was caught by an acquaintance. The season is always a pleasure to partake in. Is the Earl of Comerford here tonight?”
Lady Celia shook her head, black curls bouncing. “He is not. I have not seen him for some years.”
He frowned. “Someyears? I beg your pardon, Lady Celia, I thought you were betrothed?”
“He was in the navy, being the second son, but his older brother was always sickly and died earlier this year. He returned at once, but has been much occupied. The last time I saw him, I was twelve years old. It has been six years. But yes, we are indeed engaged to be wed.”
Laurence wanted to ask questions, but was aware it would sound rude, too blunt to express surprise that she had barely seen her betrothed since she was a child. Instead, he smiled and said only, “I wish you a happy reunion and marriage.”
She nodded and that was the end of their conversation. He thought, with a wry smile, that Frances would not have been so polite, so restrained. She would have made her feelings known, would have asked bolder questions, or, if she were Lady Celia, would have said exactly what she thought of being betrothed to a man she did not know. Although perhaps it was simply a matter of convenience for all involved. The Duke and his wife did nothave to fret over the prospects of their daughter, the Earl did not have to concern himself with choosing a suitable bride. All had already been taken care of. Was that not, after all, what he wished for? A marriage of convenience, a wife ready-chosen and pre-approved by his family.
Such a wife would be Honora Fortescue, for it would be an eminently suitable marriage and there could be no possible objection. Lord Barrington might believe in true love somehow appearing in the next twelvemonth, but Laurence knew his duty and was a more practical man. Lady Honora, daughter of Lord and Lady Halesworth, heiress to the Fortescue Hall and estate. His future wife. He nodded to her as he passed one more time round the ballroom with Lady Celia and she nodded back. Yes, it was all settled, if not yet formally then certainly there was a kind of understanding between them. Unless Lady Honora bagged herself the Duke of Buckingham, the deal was as good as done. There was a comfort to that, he felt. Duty taken care of. No need to look further. No need to think of wooing any lady here. His life, once married, would continue as before: he would spend time with the married ladies of his acquaintance, would take care of the estate, but his wife would take care of everything else – the household and children. It seemed a lonely future, but that was absurd of course. Half the married men of thetonlived as he did, as he planned to do. They sported in brothels, kept a mistress, or, like himself, kept their eye out for bored ladies of thetonwho would enjoy a little adventure. It had always been this way. There was no need for his life to be any different.
He could see Miss Lilley, who had retreated even further from the occasion behind a vast potted plant, her fan still fluttering in an agitated manner. Perhaps he would go and talk with her again, after all he owed it to Lord Barrington to show consideration towards his goddaughter, and it would besomething to report back to him. Besides, she made a change from the simpering girls here.
Frances could not stomach one more dance. The swirling bodies, the different perfumes all jumbled together, the constant music and chatter were making her head ache and her stomach turn over. She moved along the wall until she was in a corner behind a vast plant and settled herself close to two women, one a fair-headed and amply bosomed woman in a dark pink silk, the other a small-built woman in blue taffeta. They were commenting on various dancers. Frances caught Mr Mowatt’s name and began paying attention to their conversation.
“Mowatt.” The woman in blue sighed as he danced past with Lady Celia Follett. “They say… well, I believe he can be very friendly, if approached by a married lady…? And – and discreet?”
The fair-haired woman smiled dreamily. “He is… quite magnificent,” she murmured. “Everyincha gentleman.”
The woman in blue caught her breath. “Oh. And… and how would one…”
“A card to his rooms. Perhaps an invitation to the theatre or opera or even the Pleasure Gardens, that is where we… well, never mind.”
“And you… still?”
“Oh no. Mr Mowatt’s acquaintance is of a short-lived nature, he does not wish to draw unwanted attention. Especially from a lady’s spouse.”
The woman in blue swallowed. “But it would be… worth my while…?”
The fair-haired woman leant closer. “You will remember it for the rest of your days.”
Frances listened behind her open fan. This was what MrMowatt preferred, then: to amuse himself with married women rather than seek love in his planned marriage, as romantic Lord Barrington would no doubt want for him.
It was no concern of hers, certainly.
She had enjoyed talking with him, had begun to think of him as a friend, but the women’s gossip had made her feel uncomfortable. She was unsure why. He had certainly not behaved inappropriately to her. She was tired from the long evening, she would seek out her mother and beg to go home, even if she had to invent a sudden faintness.
On the other side of the ballroom Laurence was intercepted by Lord Radcliffe.
“Mowatt, there you are. I’m trying to convince Lymington here to come down the House of Flowers with me tonight. They say there’s fresh stock. How about it?”
The Earl of Radcliffe was a rake of the highest order and Mowatt had little time for him. The House of Flowers was an expensive brothel and the Earl was a regular customer, but Laurence was not particularly fond of his company.
“Another time, Radcliffe.”
“Already taken? One of your married ladies, I suppose. Can’t be doing with them myself, too prone to falling in love for my liking and then it’s the very devil to get them out of your business, sending love notes and whatnot and weeping in public, not the thing at all.”
