‘The Bedlington rout. Why not come to dinner and we’ll go on together?’
‘Good idea.’ He yawned. ‘See you then.’ And, with a nod and a wave, he headed off to his rooms in Wigmore Street, leaving Hazelmere to stroll the short distance to his house.
Entering with his latchkey, he made his way upstairs, to be greeted by his very correct gentleman’s gentleman, who went by the totally unsuitable name of Murgatroyd. He had never managed to convince Murgatroyd, a dapper and decidedly top-lofty individual, that he need not wait up for him, and that he, Hazelmere, was perfectly capable of getting himself to bed. As by various subtle references Murgatroyd had made it plain that he considered his lordship’s clothes required far greater care than his lordship was likely to bestow on them, he had finally capitulated, as in all other ways Murgatroyd suited him very well.
Snuffing out the candle and listening to the footsteps retreating down the carpeted corridor, Hazelmere crossed his arms behind his head and stretched luxuriously, smiling as he thought of a particular pair of brilliant green eyes. Tony had given voice to his own thoughts on their way home. There was going to be heavy competition for those young ladies’ favours and most of it from highly experienced players. As things stood, he could certainly not be sure of winning the lady’s heart. And, he admitted to himself, for reasons he was not entirely sure of, and quite definitely for the first time in his life, that was something he very much wanted to do.
Lady Bedlington’s rout was a gala affair attended by everyone who was anyone. The eccentric hostess was gratified to receive Lords Hazelmere and Fanshawe, as well as a quite astonishing number of their associates. Not only were these gentlemen in attendance, but they also all arrived fairly early.
In the ballroom Hazelmere kept the head of the stairs in view. As Dorothea and Cecily appeared there he adroitly disengaged from the conversation around him and, without the least haste, made his way towards the stairs, his arrival at their foot coinciding with that of Miss Darent.
Seeing him coming towards her, Dorothea smiled and then curtsied as he bowed before her. She resolutely ignored the fluttering nervousness that made breathing strangely difficult.
Raising her hand to his lips, Hazelmere dropped a gentle kiss on her fingers, managing to turn the courtesy into a caress. He did not release her hand but turned it to flip up the dance card hanging from her wrist. These tiny cards with the order of dances listed with a place for each prospective partner to inscribe his name were much in vogue, and all the best hostesses invariably provided the debutantes with a copy, slung on a riband with a tiny silver-encased pencil attached.
‘Miss Darent! You appear mysteriously free for all the dances tonight. However, I suppose I shall have to be content with just one waltz-the first, I think?’
As she laughingly assented he duly wrote his name in the appropriate spot, then, releasing her hand and turning to survey the descending multitudes of her admirers, continued in a voice lowered so that only she could hear, ‘And, as a reward for being so early, I really think I should be allowed to escort you to supper, don’t you?’
Dorothea did not reply, but her eyes met his in amused enquiry.
Correctly interpreting the glance, he answered, ‘Quite proper, I assure you.’ With a smile he moved away to make room for the hordes of gentlemen wishful of securing a dance with the lovely Miss Darent.
As he did so he noticed, as he had predicted, Markham, Peterborough, Alvanley and Desborough among the throng. In the crowd around Cecily Darent he could make out Lords Harcourt and Bassington, as well as Fanshawe, who had executed a similar tactic to his. This was not a matter for surprise; they had discussed it over dinner. Satisfied with their success, they both moved away to claim their partners for the first dance.
Dorothea had no chance to ponder the wiles of the Marquis, being claimed for every dance and attended assiduously by a coterie of admirers. She was thoroughly enjoying herself and consequently looked radiant in a bronze silk dress covered by transparently fine tissue faille, shimmering whenever she moved. The high-waisted style suited her slender figure, making her appear more startlingly beautiful than ever. More than one furious mama wondered why Celestine never suggested such designs for their daughters.
Unaware of this sartorial jealousy, Dorothea noticed a distinct and disturbing change in the quality of her partners. At Almack’s, with the exception of the Marquis and Lord Markham, these had been charming young lads not much older than herself, who were in awe of the beautiful and self-possessed young lady and entirely amenable to allowing her to control both conversation and action. Tonight the majority of her partners were older, of the same vintage as Hazelmere, and with that came a great deal more difficulty. Some, like the gentle Alvanley, were no problem, and she quickly came to regard them as friends. Others, like wild Lord Peterborough and the rakish Walsingham, she was much more wary of. When, more than midway through the evening, Hazelmere came to claim her for the first waltz, rescuing her from Lord Walsingham’s side, she went into his arms with a sensation much akin to relief.
Thoroughly appreciative of the situation, he could not resist remarking, ‘Rather heavier weather tonight, Miss Darent?’
For an instant the hazel and green eyes met. Then Dorothea, in a voice every bit as languid as his, replied, ‘Why, no, my lord! I find it all most entertaining.’
‘Trying it on just a little too thick, my child,’ he murmured.
Dorothea hit back, wide-eyed innocence writ large on her face. ‘My lord! Such cant terms. How improper!’
Hazelmere laughed, then immediately returned to the attack. ‘If we’re to discuss impropriety, my dear, why is it that, try as I might, I cannot recall a conversation with you that has not been improper?’
She caught that up easily, murmuring with complete self-assurance, ‘I should have thought the reason for that was obvious, Lord Hazelmere.’
As their glances once more caught and held, Hazelmere saw complete enjoyment of the moment reflected in her eyes. That was the second time he had walked himself into a trap with her. He must be slipping. Nevertheless, there was hay to be made yet. Trying for a sterner tone, he said, ‘I’ll have you know, my dear Miss Darent, that I’m not in the habit of conducting improper conversations with well-behaved young ladies.’
Not seeing where this was headed, she could do no more than show a politely surprised face. ‘Oh?’
As the last strains of the waltz drifted across the ballroom, he whirled her to a halt. Smiling down into those glorious green eyes, he replied, ‘Only with you.’
Eyes blazing in mock indignation, she could not keep a straight face. With a gurgle of laughter she allowed him to draw her hand through his arm and lead her back to Lady Merion’s side. ‘As I said, Lord Hazelmere, you are most improper.’
He promptly corrected her, raising her hand to his lips, his eyes fully on hers, ‘We are both most improper, Miss Darent.’
Later he escorted her to supper, extricating her from the figurative clutches of Lord Peterborough. As he was well practised in the art of detaching young women from the attentions of his close acquaintances, these otherwise difficult tasks were accomplished with a minimum of fuss. They shared a supper table with Cecily and Lord Fanshawe and Julia Bressington, who had the punctilious Lord Harcourt in tow. The conversation was general and decidedly hilarious. Fanshawe, with Cecily interpolating the occasional observation, described the singular scene they had just witnessed between old Lady Melchett and Lord Walsingham, when that irascible old dame had taken his lordship to task for not dancing with her niece.
Realising that, with her limited experience of the ton, Dorothea could not be appreciating the half of the story, Hazelmere spent a pleasant five minutes filling in her knowledge, his head close to hers so as not to disturb the rest of the table.
For Dorothea and Cecily, the Bedlington rout was to provide a blueprint for the behaviour of the Marquis and Lord Fanshawe. Present at almost every major gathering they attended, their lordships were always among the first to write their names in the dance cards, usually for a waltz, and more often than not squired them to supper.
While considerable attention was initially focused on them, as the days lengthened to weeks the ton became accustomed to the sight of Miss Darent in Lord Hazelmere’s arms and Cecily Darent in Lord Fanshawe’s. Their lordships put up with a considerable degree of ribbing regarding their habit of being in everything together. This they bore with equanimity, surprising their associates and convincing those gentlemen that the affairs were indeed serious. By the first week of April, three weeks into the Season and the week preceding the girls’ coming-out ball, the knowledgeable among the ton spoke of an un derstanding between the Darent girls and Lords Hazelmere and Fanshawe. Once this point was reached, their lordships knew that a far greater degree of licence would be permitted them in their dealings with their chosen ladies.
During those first weeks both were careful not to overstep the line at any point. Hazelmere realised that
