Rhonda Woodward Read online

  The guests ahead moved on as Mr. Penhurst, who looked less nondescript in his black evening clothes, greeted the Buckleighs with great solicitude due the highest ranking family in the community. He then turned to present his sister.

  With a gracious smile, Lady Darley greeted Lord and Lady Buckleigh with easy assurance and charm. The pleasantries could barely be heard above the lively rumble of conversation and music, but Marina was delighted when Lady Darley’s blue eyes swept her moss-green gown and showed silent approval.

  Marina smiled and curtsied before moving on. It wasn’t only London ladies who could be garbed in the crack of fashion.

  The four of them reached the edge of the parquet floor, where the other guests were mingling and listening to prelude music.

  Lord Buckleigh turned to his wife and daughters. “Now, my doves, I have seen you safely to this spot and I shall stay for one set. After that, you may find me in the billiard room Mr. Penhurst just mentioned.”

  “That shall be perfectly satisfactory, my dear,” Lady Buckleigh said with a smile to her husband.

  Knowing how much he hated this kind of entertainment, Marina smiled at her father for making the concession of dancing one set with Mama.

  Deirdre, twitching her skirts and tapping her foot in time to the music, bumped into Marina.

  “Gracious, Deirdre, do stop fidgeting.”

  “I cannot help it. It is all so lovely and exciting. After all, this is my first ball.”

  Marina shook her head. “You are such a goose.”

  Papa, who had heard this exchange, chuckled deeply. “It seems that this is your first ball, too, Marina. Or have you forgotten that your first Season does not commence until spring?”

  It was true, although she was nineteen, Marina had decided to postpone her Season for a year, so that she and Deirdre—deemed too young by Papa to go to Town this past spring—could enjoy all the delights of London together.

  “Yes, but that is no reason to behave in so gauche a manner.”

  “I am not gauche! That’s a horrible thing to say to me.” Deirdre’s large hazel eyes looked wounded to her core and her bottom lip quivered.

  Marina looked heavenward for a moment, for, really, her younger sister’s high-strung emotions could be quite trying at times. “Do stop being so dramatic.”

  Before Deirdre could reply, Lady Buckleigh gave her girls a stern look. “Stop this squabbling. We are here to enjoy ourselves or have you forgotten?”

  “No, Mama. I’m sorry,” Marina said contritely, annoyed with herself for allowing her sister to discompose her.

  Deirdre mumbled something similar.

  Marina gazed around the ballroom, marveling at the improvements made to the room since the last time she was here, many years ago. Mr. Penhurst had been busy with his renovations.

  But it was the guests who drew her attention, and she scanned the crowd for a certain golden head. Unfortunately, in the immediate vicinity, she only saw people she had known all of her life. And they all seemed to be waving or chatting or laughing with one another.

  “Oh my,” Deirdre said with a sense of wonderment. “I do hope our ballroom will be as beautiful.”

  Marina, standing beneath a massive chandelier whose candlelight glinted off gilt and mirror and jewels, agreed that it would indeed take some doing to rival this magic, but she knew her mama—who took great pride in being the grandest lady in the district—was up to the task.

  Mama, eyes smiling, leaned forward and whispered, “You are receiving a flattering amount of attention, Marina dear. Henry Willingham has had his eyes on you since you stepped into the room.”

  Marina’s smile turned wry at her mother’s satisfied observation and glanced Henry’s way.

  Before she could answer, Mrs. Willingham, garbed in a gown of forest green and a rather exotic looking turban in a violent shade of purple, swept toward them, flanked by her son and daughter. Lady Buckleigh, after a cry of delight, greeted their old friends affectionately.

  “Mrs. Willingham, how delightful you look,” she said, before Mrs. Willingham pulled her a little distance away to convey some particularly juicy bit of gossip she deemed unfit for the “children’s ears.”

  This left Henry Willingham, his sister Jane Willingham, Marina and Deirdre to make their bows and requisite greetings, for it had been some weeks since they had visited.

  As he bowed, Marina noticed that Henry wore his pale brown hair in what Marina recently learned was the windswept mode considered so smart in London. And although his collar points were fashionably high, they did not seem to impede his ability to turn his head.

  Marina instantly admired his fair good looks and the unmistakable patina of polish a few Seasons in London had added—but he did not, she admitted a little guiltily, compare to the mysterious blond man.

  Nearly the same age, Deirdre and Jane Willingham had been bosom bows since nursery days. However, a lingering girlish plumpness, along with her very fair complexion and hair, gave the impression that Jane was much younger.

  Unfortunately, her ivory gown did not enhance Jane’s pale coloring, especially when she stood near her mother’s bright costume. Her fair hair, nearly the same shade as her gown, was arranged in a riot of curls atop her head and the style was nearly as unflattering as her gown.

  Despite this lack of style, Jane was extremely popular amongst the younger people in Parsley Hay, and considered quick-witted and kind.

  Even so, Deirdre had expressed, with repetition and sincere peevishness, that she was quite put out that Jane Willingham had already made her come-out in London the previous spring.

  Evidently, by their affectionate greeting all was forgiven this evening.

  “Oh, how lovely you both look,” Jane exclaimed. “I am about to give up on Mrs. Birtwistle; the gowns she makes for me are not nearly as fashionable and flattering as the ones she makes for the two of you.”

  “I think you always look lovely, Jane.” Marina thought it the most prudent reply.

  But the compliment was unnecessary as Jane was on to her next thought.

  “I vow that Mama lives on gossip alone,” Miss Willingham proclaimed, having to raise her voice a little to be heard over the orchestra and the chatter of the other guests. “But isn’t this all so terribly exciting? I can hardly believe the changes that have been wrought in the room since last I was here. Wasn’t this the great hall of the abbey?”

  “Indeed, I believe it was,” Marina said. “One would hardly guess that this was ever not a ballroom.”

  “It is now so—oh! Look over there!” Jane interrupted herself with a gasp and gestured with her fan toward something across the room. The look of surprise on her face caused Marina to turn as well, expecting to see someone with their hair on fire.

  Henry also looked in the direction his sister gestured. “What? I don’t see anything.”

  “It’s Cortland!” Jane stood on tiptoes trying to gain a better look. “What is he doing here? I have heard nothing of his arrival! I would think this would be much too tame an evening’s entertainment for him.”

  “I see him now,” Henry said. “Looks like he’s heading for the cardrooms, which makes perfect sense.”

  Jane turned back to Marina and Deirdre. “You must forgive my rudeness. I am referring to the tall, dark-haired gentleman over there. See? He is moving away from us.”

  Through the swaying throng, Marina caught an obstructed glimpse of a tall man with near-black hair, a strong jaw, and an imposing nose. He presented a striking figure and moved with powerful grace. Instantly curious, Marina, for once, did not mind Henry’s penchant for gossip.

  “Who is he and why are you shocked he is here?”

  “He is Fitzhugh Hawksmoor, the Marquis of Cortland,” Henry provided. “He has made himself rather notorious. I met him a few times in London, though I would hardly believe he would attend such a respectable function as this. He must be a close friend of Mr. Penhurst.”

  “Oh, pooh, I cannot see him
,” Deirdre exclaimed.

  “His grandfather is the Duke of Hawksmoor,” Jane said, still straining to catch a glimpse of the Marquis. “The Hawksmoors have always been a proper lot, going back to the days of Queen Elizabeth. But Cortland is cut from a different cloth. His parents died when he was quite young, and so he became the Duke’s only direct heir. He got into one too many rather public scrapes and the Duke cut him off without a sou. La, but that was a nine days’ wonder! Cortland responded by becoming even wilder. Gambling and I know not what. It is rumored that he was nearly caught dueling. He’s terribly dashing,” she ended with a heartfelt sigh.

  “And he has certainly had the last laugh,” Henry added as Marina watched the Marquis’s back exit the ballroom through a set of double doors. “He invested some of his ill-gotten gains in a high risk venture with the East India Company. Now, he is nearly as rich as his very rich grandpapa, but without the respectability.”

  “He sounds a disreputable character, yet I detect that you seem to admire him . . . ” Marina’s observation held a question.

  “I cannot deny that I do, although I only observed his lofty circle from a distance,” Henry stated. “He’s up to every rig, a proclaimed wit, and a bruising horseman. All the young bloods are trying to duplicate how he ties his neckcloth—which he, with deliberate irony, named the ‘Cupid’s Bow.’”

  Marina looked up at Henry Willingham, a dark brow raised quizzically. “I understand that fashionable gentlemen often come up with fanciful names for their sartorial inventions, but why would naming it the Cupid’s Bow be ironic?”

  “The name Cupid’s Bow is ironic because Cortland has publicly stated that love is a silly invention of addle-pates and old maids.”

  Marina smiled although she was a little startled by such cynicism.

  “Tell her about his family motto, Henry,” Charlotte directed.

  He smiled and obliged his sister. “I don’t remember my Latin very well, but the Hawksmoor motto means “Duty and Honor to the End.” When it became known that the Duke had cut off his grandson, Cortland gave a party for his intimates and unveiled what he called his new motto. It was beautifully rendered in oil paints on a replica of the family crest. It said Duty, Honor, and Have a Jolly Good Time. But Not Necessarily in That Order.

  Marina could not help but laugh at such outrageousness, despite finding such disrespectful behavior shocking.

  The room continued to fill, and with a growing sense of anticipation, the four of them chatted until the prelude music faded, indicating that the last guest had arrived.

  Then, the orchestra struck up the opening strains of a familiar country dance. Mr. Penhurst led his sister to the middle of the floor to open the ball.

  Henry smiled at Marina and said, “I have Lord Buckleigh’s permission to ask you to dance with me. Will you do me the honor?”

  Marina sent a swift glance to his sister, not wishing to abandon her just yet, knowing her sister’s dread of being a wallflower.

  But Deirdre waved her off merrily. “I shall stay here with Jane. Do not let this music go to waste.”

  Marina smiled, noting Phoebe Tundale and Lydia Hollings coming to join Deirdre and Jane. Marina took Henry’s arm, knowing that Deirdre would be happy to gossip with her friends even if she had not been asked for the first dance.

  Marina looked over and smiled at her parents, thinking they were the handsomest couple in the room.

  With that, Henry led Marina to the floor and they took their places along with the other dancers. After the first few measures, Henry began to carry the conversation, which suited her perfectly.

  He talked of the new people recently arrived in the village and the upcoming hunting season. After they performed a very elegant chassé, Marina took a moment to admire the other dancers, impressed by the skill and grace with which they performed the steps.

  Suddenly, beyond the line of dancers, a gentleman caught her attention.

  He stood at the edge of the dance floor, in the midst of a large group as if holding court. His black evening clothes showed to advantage his thick mane of golden hair. His features were as classically symmetrical as those of a Greek statue.

  Her heart gave a very odd leap as Henry led her around another dancer. When she located the golden-haired gentleman again, he wore a slight smile as he watched the dancers make their figures. Marina’s heart leapt again and began to flutter.

  He was just as breathtakingly beautiful as she had thought when she saw him on High Street the other day.

  With her attention still caught by the gentleman, she was a beat too slow on the next step. She caught herself, and sent a quick apology to Mr. Willingham.

  “Not at all, Miss Buckleigh. You dance most gracefully. But I see you have taken note of Mr. Nigel Sefton.”

  Mortification swept through Marina and she almost missed another step. What was she thinking! Henry must think her worse than rude for staring at another man while she danced with him. She was attempting a spluttering apology when she caught the twinkle in his eyes.

  “Do not distress yourself, Miss Buckleigh,” Henry said on a laugh. “The rest of us mere male mortals are quite used to the reaction Adonis engenders in the fairer sex.”

  Marina laughed with relief at his generous attitude and was thankful for their long years of friendship.

  “Is that what he is called? I really was not intending to be rude; it’s just seeing him is rather like seeing a peacock, or some such exotic creature for the first time.”

  Henry laughed as they made another pass. “Quite so. As if Sefton did not already have an embarrassment of riches, he is the son—albeit the third son—of the Earl of Avesbury.”

  “Indeed, an embarrassment of riches.”

  They waited for the next pass and Marina could not resist another quick glance in Mr. Sefton’s direction. When she did, her gaze slammed into a pair of eyes as vivid as aquamarines and her heart went galloping anew. Adonis was indeed a fitting moniker for such a man, came the hazy thought as her gaze stayed locked with his an instant longer.

  With a keen effort, she pulled her attention back to Henry Willingham and it took every ounce of the will she was so proud of not to steal another glance at the stunning man.

  Smiling as brightly as she could, she asked, “So, what are your plans for the rest of the winter?”

  Chapter Three

  The ormolu clock on the mantel showed past eleven o’clock when Marina crossed the antechamber. On the other side of the room was the only door she had seen all evening that did not have a footman stationed in front of it.

  It was not as if she wasn’t enjoying herself—indeed, the night was everything a ball should be.

  She had danced every set, including one with their host, Mr. Penhurst. And despite his inclination to speak only of horses, hunting and hounds, it was clear he wanted nothing more than for his guests to enjoy themselves.

  She had even danced with a gentleman she had never met before—a rarity in Parsley Hay—a handsome young man named Mr. Fairdale, one of Mr. Penhurst’s cousins on his mother’s side.

  However, because of the excellent orchestra playing lively country dances, and the even more excellent punch being circulated by obliging footmen, the atmosphere had shifted from excited anticipation to a revelry that bordered on rowdiness.

  Some minutes ago, a headache began to tease behind her eyes and she now sought a few moments of inconspicuous solitude to regain her serenity.

  Grasping the brass door handle, she paused a moment, having no idea what awaited her on the other side. Yet she craved a moment of peace away from the increasingly riotous ball, less the beginnings of the headache would no doubt turn into a severe pounding.

  Quickly, she slipped out, finding herself outside in the cold air on a wide stone balcony. Pulling the door shut behind her, she leaned against it for a moment or two, letting her eyes adjust to the near darkness.

  Before her, the balcony ended in wide steps that led to a lower, less formally
designed flagstone terrace. The area, artfully lit by an abundance of fairy lights, held a fountain, stone benches, and a huge array of glazed pots overflowing with trailing ivy and white roses.

  She smiled at the beautiful scene. White roses were her favorite and she wondered where so many had been found this time of year. Mr. Penhurst must have had his servants scouring every hothouse and conservatory for miles to find so many perfect blooms.

  Crossing the balcony, she skipped down the last steps to the terrace. Circling the fountain, she breathed deeply of the chilly air and touched a delicate pale bloom. The song of a lone night bird mixing with the slightly muffled music of Mr. Penhurst’s most excellent orchestra added to the near perfection of the moment.

  Swaying a little in time to the music, she felt the faint headache fade away. She really was having a lovely time and was even more pleased that Deirdre had been asked for all but the first set.

  And miracles of miracles, Papa had danced with Mama for the second set before heading off to the billiard room.

  Mr. Penhurst was proving a most excellent host. He had already danced with all three Buckleigh ladies and so forgot his love of sports; he good-naturedly threatened to ask Mama to dance again and cause a scandal.

  It was all so amusing and more sophisticated than anything anyone in little Parsley Hay could remember.

  The only quibble Marina had was that she was no closer to Mr. Sefton than she had been when she first saw him on High Street last week.

  She sighed as a vision of golden hair and aquamarine eyes filled her senses. Truly, Mr. Sefton was the most handsome man she had seen in the whole of her nineteen years.

  Her cheeks grew hot when she recalled how he had caught her staring at him during the first set.

  It was most curious, she mused, for she was rarely anything less than composed. Oh, she was sometimes accused of being too ready to speak her mind, or chided for what Mama called her “unseemly forthrightness,” but Papa had always admired her unflappable self-possession and encouraged her to speak her mind.