Belle Of The Ball Read online

  Belle said nothing. Mrs. Langston was right, she thought, battling down the old hurts and resentments; it was a sad story. Moreover it was a story she knew all too well. Her father's relations had never forgiven her mother for marrying their precious son, and after his death, they never missed an opportunity to show that disapproval to her and her mother. They were shifted from home to home, tolerated but never welcomed by the family that preached charity even as it practiced spite. Just as things were looking their bleakest, a distant great-aunt passed away, leaving Belle the sole heiress to half a million pounds, and she and her mother were catapulted from near poverty to undreamed-of wealth. Then they were welcomed, she thought bitterly, remembering the custody battles that ensued following her mother's untimely death. At the age of twelve she learned her only value lay in her fortune, and it was a lesson she was determined never to forget.

  "I had thought of writing the duke," Mrs. Langston continued in a thoughtful tone, "but I wasn't sure how you would feel. His Grace is said to be quite powerful, and it may not do to cross him. The gentry can be odd about such things, you know."

  "Indeed I do, Mrs. Langston," Belle answered grimly. "For the moment I think it might be best if we did nothing. Besides, children like Amanda are the reason I founded this school. She will be safe with us, I assure you."

  "Do you think so?" The schoolmistress looked relieved. "I must own I was of two minds what I should do, and Thomasina was all for storming over to Belgravia and bearding the lion . . . er . . . the duke in his den. I made her promise to wait until I had consulted you."

  "Thomasina?" The name was not familiar to Belle.

  "Thomasina Pringle, the newest member of our staff," Mrs. Langston provided. "She is also the daughter of a fallen soldier, and I felt that would give her a better understanding of our pupils. She is a gifted teacher, but there are times when she is a trifle headstrong. Nothing revolutionary, mind, but once she gets a notion in her head, I fear there is no stopping her."

  That sounded most intriguing to Belle, and had time allowed, she would have enjoyed making the other woman's acquaintance. Unfortunately it was already past one o'clock, and she was due at a lecture by two. Making a mental note to introduce herself to the redoubtable Miss Pringle at the first opportunity, she rose to her feet, leaving Mrs. Langston with a smile and a bank draft that had the other lady stuttering her thanks.

  Outside, she was vexed to find no sight of either her carriage or her coachman. Since it was unlike Jackson to be late, she decided he must have been unavoidably detained, and that left her no choice but to flag down a hackney. Since there were none to be seen on the small side street, she began making her way toward the next street, where she was certain she would have no trouble in securing transportation. She'd just reached the curb when a carriage pulled up beside her, and the occupant lowered the window to greet her.

  "Miss Portham, is that you?"

  Belle's eyes widened as she recognized Lord Berwick. "Indeed it is, my lord," she said coolly, wondering what had brought him to this isolated corner of St. John's Wood.

  "But what are you doing here without proper escort?" The earl sounded scandalized as he climbed down from the carriage to confront her. "Is everything all right?"

  "Certainly, sir," Belle assured him, bristling at the note of censure in his voice. "I was but walking over to the next street to hire a carriage. My coachman has been delayed and I—"

  "Then you must take mine," Lord Berwick interrupted. "I can easily hire another one."

  Belle hesitated, knowing the sensible thing would be to accept his kind offer. Still, she hated taking anything from anyone. "That is very good of your lordship," she began in her coolest tones, "but I really couldn't impose upon you."

  "No, no, I insist," the earl replied, his expression earnest as she gazed down into her wary eyes. "What sort of gentleman would I be to leave a lady in distress without protection?"

  His pompous manner was beginning to grate on Belle's nerves. "I am hardly at the mercy of dragons, sir," she chided, thinking he was making much ado about nothing.

  "Worse, you are at the mercy of the London streets," Berwick corrected, still looking stern. "And that is something I cannot allow. Please take my carriage."

  Belle did not see how she could refuse. "Very well, Lord Berwick," she said, giving in with a good-natured smile. "It is most kind of you."

  "Not at all, Miss Portham," he said, helping her into the carriage. "The pleasure is mine. In these modern times it's not often a man is granted the opportunity to act as knight errant for a lady fair."

  His repartee delighted Belle, and she cautiously revised her earlier opinion of him. "In which case, Sir Knight, I would ask that you allow me to repay you for your gallant act," she said, allowing her guard to drop as she held out her hand to him. "I am holding a small tea Thursday next, and I would be pleased if you would attend."

  Berwick accepted her hand with a courtly bow. "I should be honored to do so, milady," he said, his hazel eyes meeting hers. "And might I hope you will save me a dance at the Merricks' soiree? You are attending?" he asked when she hesitated.

  "Yes," she admitted, hoping he didn't think she was snubbing him, "but I hadn't planned on dancing. I usually sit with the older ladies and gossip. But I suppose I might make an exception this one time," she added at the disappointed look that flashed across his handsome features.

  The look cleared as if by magic, and he favored her with a dazzling smile. "I shall look forward to it," he said, stepping back from the carriage and signaling the driver to continue. "Until then, Miss Portham, I shall bid you adieu."

  Jackson returned to the house several hours later, his beefy face bright with consternation as he stood before Belle. "I don't know what happened, Miss Portham," he said, twisting his hat between his hands. "I was at the Bull and Dog having my wee pint, and when I come out, the reins had all been cut. I fixed 'em quick as I could, but when I got to the school, you was gone." He lowered his eyes. "I'll clear my things out of the stables."

  "Nonsense, Jackson," Belle responded, her expression softening as she studied him. "You are an excellent driver, and I'm not about to dispense with your services because of something which was clearly beyond your control."

  "Then you won't be giving me the sack?"

  "Certainly not!" She gave him an indignant look. "Someone cutting the traces is hardly your fault. Doubtlessly it was one of those tiresome Corinthians playing a trick on you. It sounds the harebrained sort of stunt one of them would pull."

  "Thank you, miss." Jackson cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. "I won't be forgetting this. You're a grand lady, and 'tis an honor serving you."

  "Thank you, Jackson; you may go now," Belle said, touched by his declaration. She wasn't so wealthy that she didn't remember how it felt being dependent on another for the very bread in one's mouth, and she'd vowed never to make her employees feel as less than dirt beneath her feet. The way she'd been made to feel, she brooded, her expression troubled as she watched Jackson shuffle out of her study.

  Three

  O ne week later, Belle was in her rooms dressing for dinner at Lord and Lady Williton's, a prospect she viewed with glum resignation. The marquess and his simpering wife were friends of Georgiana's, and dull to the point of vapidity. She usually avoided their company whenever possible, but as tonight's party was in Julia's honor, she didn't see how she could gracefully decline. Duty, as she had learned at an early age, was seldom a pleasant thing.

  She was adding the finishing touches to her toilet when there was a knock at the door and Julia drifted in, enchantingly attired in a gown of white and gold spangled silk.

  "Good evening, Cousin!" she said, depositing a loving kiss on Belle's cheek. "How was your afternoon?"

  "Uneventful," Belle answered, thinking of the round of calls she had made that day. "And yours? I trust you and Georgiana enjoyed your visit to the museum?"

  A soft smile touched Julia's en
ticing lips. "Oh, yes." She sighed, her blue eyes sparkling. "It was wonderful."

  "I see." Belle gave her a sharp look before turning to her abigail. "Thank you, Annette," she said, giving the young woman an encouraging smile. "You may go now."

  The maid blushed and dropped an awkward curtsy. "Yes, Miss Portham," she said, her eyes downcast as she scurried from the room. Julia watched her go, a thoughtful look on her face.

  "I think it is very kind of you to give the girl a position," she said, turning back to Belle with a smile. "Not many ladies would employ a servant who is lame."

  "Annette cannot help her infirmity, and she gives me very good service," Belle responded, grateful the girl's mind was on something other than Tobias Flanders. In the week since they'd encountered him and Colford, it seemed Julia thought of little else.

  "Yes, but to let her serve as your abigail, that is taking charity rather above and beyond, I think."

  "Above and beyond what?"

  "Noblesse oblige," Julia answered, casting Belle a considering look. "Tobias was telling me it is what is expected of members of our Society."

  Belle was silent for a long moment, not certain which shocked her more—that Julia was on such intimate terms with Mr. Flanders as to refer to him by his Christian name, or that the dull-witted dandy was capable of such thoughts. She gazed into the mirror, pretending interest in her reflection as she sought to recover herself. When she felt more in control, she picked up the gold satin fan from the top of her dresser.

  "A rather intriguing line of thought for a poet," she said, her eyes on the fan as she opened and closed it. "Might I ask when this conversation took place?"

  Julia glanced away. "This afternoon," she confessed, lowering her eyes to her clasped hands. "We met him at the museum . . . quite by chance, of course."

  "Of course," Belle returned absentmindedly, wondering how many other times the two had "accidentally" encountered each other in the past week. She and Julia were together most evenings, but the younger woman's days were usually spent either with Georgiana or one of her newfound friends, and until now, Belle had been pleased with the arrangement. If Julia was secretly meeting with that oaf Flanders, however, it was obvious changes would have to be made.

  "Speaking of museums, I was wondering if Georgiana and I could attend the Royal Porcelain Exhibit," Julia said with a feigned interest that didn't fool Belle for a moment. "There was the most interesting article in The Times this morning, and I thought the exhibit sounded fascinating."

  "Yes, I saw the article," Belle replied, remembering the effusive praise heaped on the display, one of Prinny's few acquisitions that had met with any approval. She'd thought at the time a visit to the exhibit sounded like a pleasant way to spend an afternoon.

  "Why don't we all go?" she suggested, deciding it might be wise to keep a sharper eye on her ward in the future. "We can make a day of it."

  As she expected, Julia leapt to her feet, her blue eyes wide with panic. "But that would ruin . . . That is, I know how very busy you are, and I don't wish to be a bother."

  The first niggling of suspicion was now a fullblown certainty, and she fixed the younger woman with a commanding look.

  "You won't be a bother, my dear," she said, picking up her fan and rising to her feet. "In fact, the more I think of it, the more I think it will be just the thing. Shall we say next week?"

  Julia opened her lips as if to protest, but after a moment she closed them with a sigh. "Next week will be fine, Cousin," she said, with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

  After Julia returned to her own rooms, Belle went in search of Georgiana. She found her in the library, and when she mentioned her suspicions, her cousin confirmed them with a laugh.

  "Well, of course she has been meeting Flanders, you silly goose! You must know she is enamored of him."

  "And you must know I cannot abide that posturing fool!" Belle protested, feeling betrayed by Georgiana's actions. "How can you allow her to throw herself at him like that? You, who are forever lecturing me about her reputation!"

  "She's not 'throwing herself at him,' " Georgiana corrected, her lips thinning in displeasure. "They are conducting a very proper courtship under my watchful eye, and I assure you there is no way anyone could possibly object. As for you not liking the fellow, what has that to do with it? She likes him, and that is the only thing that matters."

  "But, Georgiana, Flanders is a dolt with no prospects to recommend him," Belle continued, shuddering to think of Toby as a member of her family. "You can't wish to see Julia wasted on that . . . that fribble."

  Georgiana sat back in her chair, her expression stern as she studied Belle. "Again, my feelings are of no moment," she said with uncompromising bluntness. "Julia truly loves the lad, and if the mooncalf looks he has been casting her way are any indication, it is a sentiment he more than returns. If he should ask permission to speak to Simon, I don't see that it is any business of yours."

  The unexpectedly harsh words struck Belle as cruelly as any whip. It was as if once again she was the unwanted outsider, the orphan who must be accommodated in the name of family honor. The old pain cut deep, and her instinctive response was to retreat. Drawing herself to her full height, she fixed Georgiana with her coolest stare.

  "Simon may well be Julia's guardian," she acknowledged in frosty tones, "but she is still my responsibility. I promised Simon I would allow no harm to befall her while she is in my care, and that is a promise I mean to keep, whether it is any of my business or nay. I trust I have made myself clear."

  To the young lady listening in the hallway, she had made herself all too clear, and with tears streaming from her blue eyes, Julia turned and dashed up the stairs.

  "Another glass of champagne, Lady Bingington?" Marcus asked, bending solicitously toward Charlotte. "It is rather close tonight."

  "Indeed it is," Lady Bingington replied, her cheeks bright with color as she vigorously fanned herself. "I cannot think what his lordship is about, ordering the fires to be kept blazing when he has close to fifty people stuffed into his drawing room."

  "Williton has never been known for his good sense," Marcus answered, signaling one of the circling footmen with a lift of his finger. Seconds later the liveried servant was standing before them, presenting a tray to Marcus.

  "The poor soul looked as if he could use this more than I," Charlotte commented, sighing with relief as she took a sip of the icy wine. "One of the first things I did once I was out of mourning was to design a more comfortable livery for the servants. They were going about their duties swathed in velvet even in the hottest weather."

  "Your ladyship is very kind," Marcus said, meaning every word. The more he was around Charlotte, the more he became convinced she was just the lady to be his countess. Tonight he would probe her feelings to see if she reciprocated his interest. Time was rapidly running out, and if she should refuse, he would have to turn his sights elsewhere.

  "More like I am a selfish creature who likes her comforts." Charlotte turned his praise aside with a light laugh, her brown eyes sparkling as she gazed up at him. "Servants swooning from the heat are of little use to anyone."

  "Pragmatic and kind," Marcus murmured, availing himself of her free hand and carrying it to his lips. "You are indeed a paragon among ladies. How can I resist?"

  Her answering laugh and the discreet but firm way she freed her hand from his boded ill for his courtship. "Oh, I am sure that shouldn't be a problem for a scamp like yourself," Charlotte retorted, turning to gaze about the room with studied interest. "Oh, look, is that not Miss Portham and Miss Dolitan? My, isn't she lovely? That is a stunning gown."

  Marcus bit back his disappointment and glanced obligingly to the door where the two ladies and Mrs. Larksdale were greeting their host and hostess. Miss Dolitan was dressed in a sparkling white gown as befitted a debutante, while Mrs. Larksdale was rigged out in varying shades of purple. It was The Icicle, resplendent in emerald silk, who caught and held his attention.

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p; The gown was simply, even primly cut, but it clung to her slender form in a manner that made the breath catch in his throat. Her glorious golden hair was caught back in a stylish chignon with only a few curls escaping to caress the high curve of her cheek. Emeralds glistened about her throat and winked from her small ears, and a large, square-cut emerald adorned the hand she was holding out to the marquess.

  "I wonder who her modiste is," Charlotte said, her eyes resting on the ladies. "One of my nieces is to make her bows next year, and that is precisely the sort of gown I should like to see her wear."

  Marcus tore his eyes from Miss Portham long enough to cast Lady Bingington a puzzled frown. "You would allow your niece to wear green?" he asked, faintly surprised, for the duchess had always struck him as a pattern card of propriety. "I thought debs were obliged to wear white."

  "And so they are, but as it is Miss Dolitan's gown I am referring to, I see no problem," Charlotte returned, tipping her dark head to one side as she slanted Marcus a teasing smile. "What made you think I meant Miss Portham?"

  Marcus was horrified to feel his cheeks warming with embarrassment. "Young debs hold no interest for me," he muttered, glancing about him for some potential diversion. His eyes lit on Toby, who was forging a path toward Miss Dolitan, and he turned to Lady Bingington.

  "If your ladyship will excuse me, I must have a word with Toby," he said, executing a swift bow. "There is something of import I need to discuss with him."

  "Of course, my lord," Charlotte agreed, granting his release with an understanding smile. "I see an old friend I've not seen in some years, and believe I shall go over to say hello. Good evening."

  Marcus bowed again and hurried over to where Toby had already engaged Miss Dolitan in conversation. Miss Portham was standing to one side, her beautiful face frozen with disapproval as she listened to Toby's enthusiastic greeting of her ward. " '. . . should pluck the feathered wings of time,' " Toby concluded, his heart in his eyes as he gazed at Julia. "Do you like it? I wrote it this afternoon after we had parted."