Page 82 of His Duchess in Disguise
Once Mrs. Pearthorne had made her way out of the withdrawing room, she also gave a sigh of relief. “That was not as much of an ordeal as I feared it might be,” she said. “I think there is a light supper laid out in the ballroom, with dancing to follow after. Shall we go see what might be had?”
Emma immediately assented. She realized that in her haste to be ready when her aunt and friend called for her that she had quite forgotten about eating. While making her curtsy to Queen Charlotte, she had been far too nervous to eat. Now she was ravenous.
Just then, Emma’s aunt spotted an old friend, and true to her word, went off with a cluster of older ladies, all twittering together like a flock of sparrows.
The tea laid out for the guests was modest, in keeping with wartime economies. There was tea, of course, white bread and butter, an assortment of small cakes and a delicate ice sculpture that was already melting in the warm air of the closely packed room.
Mrs. Pearthorne drew Emma over to a row of chairs against the wall, and they both sat, grateful for the opportunity. Emma had entirely loaded her plate with bread and butter, and three dainty little cakes. Mrs. Pearthorne had one small cake on her plate. Both had a cup of tea.
Emma bit hungrily into one of the slices of bread and butter.
“Small bites,” Mrs. Pearthorne murmured. “No doubt you are starving, but we do not want to appear as ravening wolves. Besides, you want to save some room for when your swains bring food to you.”
“Swains? What swains?” Emma asked, glancing around. “I see a large amount of space all about us.”
Mrs. Pearthorne took a sip of her tea. “Just wait, my friend’s dear niece, and they will shortly appear.”
Emma took smaller bites, but she still managed to clear her plate down to the cake in record time.
Just as she was biting into the first little cake, a lanky man in regimentals with a captain’s insignia came over to Mrs. Pearthorne.
“Mrs. Pearthorne!” he exclaimed. “Are you finally out of mourning?”
“I shall always be in mourning for Captain Pearthorne,” she replied. “But I felt a breath of fresh air would do me good, Captain Arnault.”
The captain snorted. “Fine chance you’ll have of drawing a breath of fresh air in here. I don’t suppose I could beg the honor of a dance?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Out of respect to my late husband, I shall remain on the sidelines. But let me introduce you to the niece of my dear friend. Emma, this is Captain Roger Arnault, who was on the Continent with my late husband. Captain, this is Miss Emma Hoskins, niece of Mrs. Herbert Brown, and daughter to Gilbert Hoskins, Baron of Calber.”
“Surely I might beg of you a dance, Miss Hoskins?”
“I only know country dances, Captain Arnault.”
“What good fortune it is that one is starting up right now.”
Emma looked at the widow for guidance. Mrs. Pearthorne made little shooing motions with her hand.
By the time Emma returned, a little breathless because the dance was a fast one, Mrs. Pearthorne was surrounded by quite a crowd of young men. Most of them were in regimentals, but a few were in the quiet clothing worn by country squires, while one or two others were resplendent in the black and white favored by Almack’s. One tall gentleman bowed graciously and moved away as Emma approached. He was dressed all in black, as if he, too, were in mourning.
In a very few moments, Emma’s dance card was completely filled, with Captain Arnault having claimed her as his dinner companion. Mrs. Pearthorne was accompanied by the gentleman clothed in black. She introduced him to Emma, but she was in too much of a whirl with all the dancing and names to remember it.
After dinner, there was more dancing. Mrs. Brown came back from talking with her friends, and Mrs. Pearthorne went off to make up a fourth at playing cards. As the last dance was ending, Emma returned to discover Mrs. Brown speaking with a lean man who was clad in the highest fashion. He carried a walking stick, and bright gems flashed from every finger.
“ . . . have to apply to her father,” Emma heard her say. “I am only her chaperone, not her guardian.”
“I shall be sure to call on him,” the man said. “She has quite caught my eye, but I was too late to claim a dance. Mrs. Pearthorne’s military friends had completely filled in every space on her card.”
“I am sorry,” Emma said. “Have I done something wrong?”
“No, no.” The gentleman turned to her, “Au contraire. It is marvelous to see a young lady enjoying herself. I am only regretting that I was too slow to claim a dance. Perhaps,” he added, addressing her aunt, “you could introduce us?”
The expression on Mrs. Brown’s face was wooden, but she unhinged her set jaw enough to say, “Emma, allow me to introduce Percy Harlow, Earl of Cleweme. He has announced his intention to call on your father to ask for your hand in marriage.”
Emma’s mouth dropped open in a most unladylike fashion. “B-but, this is only my first dance. I thought I would have a whole season of dances.” She realized that she was nearly whining like a schoolroom miss and lifted her chin. “You are welcome to apply to my father, but I do not feel that I am ready to make a choice at this time.”
“Spirit as well as beauty,” the Earl said with a smile. “I like that. I shall be sure to apply to your father at the earliest opportunity.”
Mrs. Pearthorne floated up to the group. “Your Lordship,” she said with cloying sweetness, “What a surprise to find you here, fluttering around the brightest light at the ball.”
