Page 86 of Marry in Secret
Best of all, according to the ladies, several last-minute acceptances had come in overnight and no new refusals. It was certain to be a frightful squeeze—a thing, apparently, to be much desired. Thomas hated squeezes.
The ladies were in a frenzy of excitement, the gentlemen much less so. Galbraith muttered things about needing to visit his man of affairs, while Lord Ashendon, who his wife made plain was required to stay on hand all day to deal with any emergencies, eyed his brother-in-law with a jaundiced expression and ate only two sausages for breakfast—a sign that he was very much out of sorts.
Thomas also made plans for a busy day far away from Ashendon House—he’d call on young Peter and see how he was progressing, visit the bank to see what developments there were, if any. And he’d pack for his trip, away from the prying eyes of his wife, and send his baggage ahead of time, down to the docks.
His ship departed for Gibraltar two days after the ball, and he wanted to leave with a minimum of fuss.
He would return to Ashendon House in time to bathe, shave and change into his formal clothes. Higgins, Ashendon’s valet, had offered to attend him. Rose’s influence, he suspected, but Thomas was glad of it. He would be under the gaze of the cream of society this night—the nobody who had displaced a duke. He needed to look hisbest.
Chapter Eleven
I have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one’s partners in the waltz of this world—not much remembered when the ball is over.
—GEORGE, LORD BYRON, IN A LETTER TO MRS.
Ashendon House blazed with light. As well as the gas lighting in the street and at the entrance of the house, footmen holding blazing brands stood on either side of the gate—the flames against the night sky a nice touch of drama, harking back to the days of linkboys. A red carpet ran from the edge of the pavement up to the front door, so that no dainty shoe would be soiled. A canopy had been erected over it, in case of rain, but the night was warm and clear.
Inside, the furniture had been completely rearranged to leave space for dancing, the carpets rolled up and removed, the ballroom floor polished and then patterned with elegant chalk designs to prevent slippage.
Gleaming carriages, many of them bearing coats of arms, were already backed up far down the street. People who lived just minutes away and not wishing to walk around the corner in their finery had to wait half an hour or more just to arrive. A number of ladies arrived in sedan chairs, their escorts walking beside them.
Inside the house, the graceful line of the staircase wasentirely lost under the masses of people in silks, satins and velvets, inching toward the top of the stairs, where they would greet their host and hostess, meet the guests of honor—Lady Rose and her husband, the nobody—and be admitted.
Thomas ran a finger between his neck and the collar of his shirt. His neckcloth, tied in some fancy arrangement by Higgins, the valet, was far too tight. Or his shirt collar was.
His trousers certainly were. Ollie and the tailor had assured him they were all the crack, but Thomas felt... exposed.
Though he’d already noticed several gentlemen whose trousers were even tighter.
He’d also been the recipient of embarrassingly direct glances from a number of ladies. And more than a few inviting, not to say blatant, come-hither smiles.
“And this is my sister’s husband, Mr. Thomas Beresford,” Lord Ashendon said. Thomas bowed and murmured a polite greeting. He’d lost track of all the names already. The line was endless.
“Not long to go,” Rose murmured between introductions. “We’ll go inside soon and the dancing can start.”
“We don’t have to wait until everyone arrives?”
“No. Plenty of people will arrive late, having come from the theater or a dinner or another party. Burton will stand at the ballroom entrance and announce the latecomers as they arrive.”
“Lucky Burton.”
Rose looked ravishing, even more ravishing than usual in a deep pink silk dress with a spangled gauze overdress. All their dresses, except for Lady Salter’s, had been made by the same dressmaker who made the scanty pieces of frippery that Rose wore to bed. Thomas was glad to see that her ball dress covered a good deal more of her, though to his eye the neckline was far too low. Other men kept looking at his wife. Thomas stared them grimly down.
The Rutherford ladies in their ball gowns made a virtual rainbow; Rose’s sister Lily wore amber silk shot withsilver—a choice that made him realize for the first time that her eyes were gray. The countess wore a low-cut apple-green gown that made no effort to hide her increasing condition. She looked ripe and regal, and the sight of her made Thomas swallow and wonder what Rose would look like, swelling with child like that.
Silvery-haired Lady Salter looked severe and magnificent in shades of gray, and Aunt Dottie looked charming in rich claret silk with blond lace. Lady George, as the only unmarried young Rutherford lady, wore white with a scowl. George hated wearing white, Rose told him.
Thomas’s jaw ached from smiling when they were finally freed from the endless reception line. The dancing was about to start.
Since the ball was in their honor, Thomas led Rose out for the first dance; not perfectly conventional, as it should have been according to rank. But then, as Lady Ashendon pointed out, this whole affair was hardly conventional.
Thomas and Rose had put their differences aside for the occasion and though Thomas was a little nervous about his dancing skills—it had been a long time, after all—he was soon reassured that he was adequate to the task.
“Thomas,” Rose murmured in a warning voice as they came together in the dance.
“What?” Had he made a mistake?
“Careful, your enjoyment is showing.” She laughed at his expression. “Isn’t this the most delightful ball?”
