creation would have on Hazelmere in his present mood, Ferdie almost felt sorry for the Marquis.
Cecily was adorned in pure white, with trimming of aquamarine ribbon set with tiny seed-pearls criss-crossed over the bodice and looped around her skirt. Again the effect was unique and quite lovely.
Lady Merion, satisfied with the effect her granddaughters’ gowns had had on Ferdie, spoke up, telling him that they were now ready to depart.
Ferdie gulped and asked innocently, ‘Oh, has Mellow announced the carriage?’
‘No, Ferdie, he hasn’t,’ said Dorothea, suddenly suspicious.
‘I don’t know what’s keeping them, then,’ muttered her ladyship. ‘We called for the carriage long ago.’
‘Er-yes.’ Ferdie decided that Lady Merion was the safest of the three to address. ‘Just came from dinner at Hazelmere House. Lady Hazelmere was there, ma’am, and sent her regards. Said she’d see you at the ball.’
At this juncture, with Ferdie fervently searching for some topic to distract his three ladies, Mellow entered and solved the problem by announcing the carriage.
Chapter Seven
After an uneventful drive, the Merion carriage joined the long queue of coaches lining up to disgorge their fair burdens on the torch-lit steps of Richmond House. There had been little conversation on the journey, and Ferdie had had time to ponder what lay between the Darent sisters and his friends.
He recalled the look in Dorothea’s eye that afternoon when he had hurried to catch up with them as they left the Park. He had been unable to interpret it at the time, imagining that the four of them had been together the whole time. But now, from what Marc and Tony themselves had said, it was clear that had not been the case. Ferdie’s mind boggled when he tried to imagine what exactly had happened between Dorothea and Marc. And this while the Misses Darent were, after a fashion, in his care! If such a thing ever got out, his carefully nurtured reputation as a trustworthy ladies’ companion would be ruined!
The carriage drew up and he helped his ladies to alight. Soon they were following the glittering line of arrivals up the grand staircase. At the top, they were greeted by the Duchess, and moved on into the ballroom as their names were proclaimed in stentorian accents by two massive footmen flanking the door.
Dorothea had only taken a few steps when she found Hazelmere at her elbow. Smiling up at him, she saw that his eyes were not laughing, but glinting at her in a way that made her heart stand still. All the other symptoms she now associated with his presence-breathlessness, confusion and a certain anticipation-immediately came to the fore. Then he smiled and the intense look dissolved into his usual warmly amused expression, dispelling her unease. His lips lightly brushed her gloved fingertips before he drew her hand through his arm.
‘Come with me, Miss Darent; there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’
‘Oh? Who, pray tell?’
‘Me.’
She chuckled. She was drawn out of the mainstream of the arriving guests, a tactic that confused the small army of gentlemen waiting patiently to greet her further along the ballroom. Hazelmere led her towards a corner, into the camouflage of earlier arrivals. He moved automatically through the crowd, not seeing them, not hearing them. His mind was awhirl with a heady sensation he had never experienced before. Whatever it was, it was exciting and uncomfortable at the same time, and its cause was the unutterably lovely creature walking so calmly beside him. The sight of her, encased in ivory, had taken his breath away. Then she had smiled at him with such open affection that he had had to fight an impulse to kiss her in the middle of the Duchess of Richmond’s ballroom.
The temptation to continue their ambling stroll into the adjoining rooms was strong. He knew Richmond House fairly well. He was sure he could find a deserted ante-room where Miss Darent and he could analyse his strange response to her presence in more depth. He sighed inwardly. Unfortunately such intimate discussions were not listed among the acceptable ways of wooing young ladies during the Season.
Reluctantly pausing, he looked down at her again, drinking in the flawless symmetry of her face, drowning in her emerald eyes. He saw them widen, first in amused enquiry and then, as he remained silent, in increasing bewilderment. ‘I’ll have you know, Miss Darent, that I’m rapidly running out of ideas of how to whisk you away before your devoted admirers surround you.’
Smiling in response, Dorothea hoped that he couldn’t hear the thudding of her heart. She was no longer sure of her ability to keep him from guessing her feelings-as he stood before her, magnificent as ever, the spell he cast was too potent. He had developed a certain way of looking at her, which made her feel deliciously warm and tingly and led her unruly thoughts into fields they had no business straying into. Well-brought-up young ladies weren’t supposed to know of such things, let alone weave fantasies about them. Thinking that she could quite happily bask in that hazel gaze for the rest of forever, she forced herself to try for their usual conversational mode. ‘Well, you seem to have succeeded to admiration this evening. I feel utterly deserted!’
‘Do you, indeed?’ he murmured, adding in a provocative undertone, ‘Would that you were, my dear.’
In spite of her intentions, she was finding it harder and harder to meet his eyes with her customary cool unconcern.
Hazelmere finally looked down to examine her dance card. ‘I don’t suppose I should tell you that Lord Markham is presently making a cake of himself, searching through the place for you? No! Don’t look around or he might see you. And the only reason Alvanley, Peterborough and Walsingham ain’t doing the same is that they’re watching Robert do it for them. Miss Darent, I notice there’s a waltz immediately preceding supper, which is a very sensible innovation. I must remember to compliment the Duchess on her good sense. Will you do me the honour, my dear Miss Darent, of waltzing with me and then allowing me to take you into supper?’
Dorothea had managed to gain a firmer hold on her composure during this speech and was able to serenely reply, ‘That will be delightful, Lord Hazelmere.’
One black brow rose. ‘Will it?’
But she refused to be drawn with such an unanswerable question and simply smiled sweetly back. Hazelmere laughed and raised one finger to her cheek. ‘Promise me you’ll never put a rein on your tongue, my dear. Life would become so dull if you did.’
The caress and the even more provocative tones brought a familiar flash to her large green eyes.
‘Ah! Miss Darent! Lord Hazelmere. Your servant, sir.’ Sir Barnaby Ruscombe materialised at Hazelmere’s elbow. Hazelmere suavely inclined his head, and Dorothea drummed up her best social smile for London’s most notorious rattle. Sir Barnaby, beaming as if delighted by these mild acknowledgements, waved his hand towards the figure on his arm, a sharp-featured woman of indeterminate years, dressed entirely in a quite hideous shade of puce, clashing outrageously with her improbable auburn locks. ‘Permit me to introduce you. Miss Darent, Lord Hazelmere. Mrs Dimchurch.’
The exchange of curtsies and bows was purely perfunctory. ‘But I’m sure Miss Darent remembers me from the assemblies at Newbury,’ gushed Mrs Dimchurch. Hazelmere felt Dorothea stiffen. ‘So sad about your dear mama! Lady Cynthia and I always enjoyed a comfortable cose while we watched over our daughters.’ Her sharp eyes were fixed on the Marquis. ‘I must say, I was surprised to hear Lady Cynthia had made your acquaintance, my lord. She never mentioned it. Strange, don’t you think?’
As an attempt to throw Hazelmere, it was so crude that Dorothea only just managed to retain her composure.
His lordship, used to stiffer competition, made short work of it. Regarding the offending Mrs Dimchurch with a coldly gentle smile, he softly said, ‘I very much doubt, my dear ma’am, that Lady Darent was the type of lady who would presume, on the basis of a single chance introduction, to claim acquaintance with anyone. Don’t you agree?’
Mrs Dimchurch turned brick-red, rendering her
Without waiting for a reply, Hazelmere nodded to Sir Barnaby and, bestowing a devilish smile on the unfortunate Mrs Dimchurch, drew Dorothea’s hand once more through his arm and strolled back towards the milling crowds in the centre of the large room.
Once out of earshot of the importunate couple, Hazelmere glanced down. ‘My dear Miss Darent, how many
