Page 5 of A Hint of Scandal (The Mismatched Lovers #2)

I n the bright ballroom full of flamboyant gowns, ostrich feather head-dresses and smartly dressed gentlemen, Max stood out of the way, just behind where his mother had taken a seat with her friends, his face set in an expression guaranteed to put off even the most determined of conversationalists.

His mother had experienced no trouble in reacquainting herself with her old friends—for the most part elderly dowagers such as herself. Indeed, she was at present heads-together with two of the most imposing of these acquaintances, Lady Routledge and Lady Ponsonby. The latter happened to be their gracious hostess for the evening, but both of them fancied themselves as the utmost arbiters of the ton . No doubt they were picking apart this year’s crop of young ladies and their ambitious mamas. Probably the young gentlemen too. But in all likelihood not his pretty niece Arabella, for fear of upsetting her grandmother.

Max had chosen a corner with a convenient pillar behind which he could shelter, in the hopes of avoiding the feeling of being exposed to the critical scrutiny of the assembled crowd. This ball had come as quite a surprise. He hadn’t expected Maria and his mother to have settled into Westbury House so infernally quickly. But they had, and, within days, invitations had started flying in for balls and routs and masquerades and soirées. He’d failed to take into account how many people his mother knew. And all of them seemed keen to see her again after her self-inflicted retreat to the Dower House at Bratton Park, from where she’d been overseeing Julian’s medical care.

This was the first ball they’d been invited to, and Arabella had been bursting with the most irritating excitement all day long. This, and Maria’s similar girlish over enthusiasm, had driven Max into the library that had once been his father’s, seeking refuge from all the women rushing around the house like demented chickens. Why was it women made such a fuss about what they were going to wear, how they should do their hair, what perfume was sweetest smelling, and what embellishments would look best with the gowns they only might have made their minds up to wear?

Much easier to be a man and just have to choose a different waistcoat and cravat. Although some men, and there were be plenty of them here in Town for the Season, obviously spent nearly as long as Maria and Arabella in perfecting their evening dress. Max wrinkled his nose as just such a dandy minced past. Ten years in the army had not been an adequate preparation for the vagaries of a London Season in full swing.

Thankfully, from his unobtrusive position, he was able to observe the dance floor without himself being much observed. Arabella, gorgeous in a green gown ornamented with Brussels lace, and with the long train caught up by a loop hooked over a finger on one hand, was at present dancing with a young Second Lieutenant in his scarlet regimentals and looking as though she were very much enjoying it. As Maria, ever the proud mama, had predicted, Arabella was proving a most popular dance partner. Aided, no doubt, by the fact that as the daughter of an Earl with a sizeable fortune, anyone making an offer for her could be sure of a handsome dowry. And of course, her fresh beauty was an added incentive.

Happy that his supposed charge was not in any way either compromising herself or in danger of falling prey to any aged fortune hunters, Max allowed his gaze to stray over the rest of the room. Despite winter still having a firm hold on London, inside Highcourt House the air could even have been said to be a little too warm. A fair number of those present were rather ruddy about the face, and those dancing had foreheads where sweat stood out in a shining film.

Max tapped his foot in time to the music, remembering the adage his old nurse had been used to tell him. Horses sweat, gentlemen perspire, but ladies glow . There were a few ladies out there behaving very much like horses.

Where was Maria? Aha. There, standing with two other proud mamas, all of them closely observing their offspring while maintaining a garrulous three-way conversation. Why she’d insisted he accompany them to this first ball, he had no idea—she was clearly perfectly all right on her own. But she’d insisted he should start as she meant him to go on—by showing himself as available to the scheming mamas of the girls on offer. Nothing he’d said had persuaded her otherwise. She was clearly under strict instructions from Julian.

However, he’d succeeded in keeping to himself ever since they’d arrived, a couple of hours since, ostensibly attending on his mother in case she might need anything, but in reality camouflaging himself amongst those unlikely to take a turn on the dance floor. It would be time for supper soon, and he was even feeling a little hungry. He’d already decided he would escort his mother or Maria in, thus obviating the need for him to have to talk to any of the young women present.

He frowned. Why was it that amongst the dancers all spinning and skipping in the center of the room, the number of men in their scarlet regimentals seemed disproportionately large? Or was it just that they appeared more prominent and numerous because of his acute awareness that he’d never be among their number again?

A fair number of regiments must be back from the Peninsula and allowing their young officers time for rest and recuperation. A pang of jealousy stole through him. Not that he himself had ever been inclined to participate in the hurly-burly of the Season in his breaks from active duty. Rather that before too long they’d be returning to their regiments, possibly back to Spain or even Portugal, and leaving him behind. The army had been his life since leaving Oxford, and no matter how he tried, his soul cried out its melancholy at not still being a part of that camaraderie of brothers.

With reluctance, he pushed that thought out of his head. Nothing he could do about it and it didn’t do to dwell on what he couldn’t change. His arm was never going to recover and he would have to make the best of it. After all, Lord Nelson had done just that, only, as a much higher up officer, and in the navy rather than the army, he’d been able to continue with his naval career. Until it had ended abruptly at Trafalgar, of course, just three years ago.

Lord Nelson forgotten, his gaze roved on. One of his favorite things to do, even from boyhood, had been to people watch. And now he could no longer participate in the wider world, and never having had much of a London Season himself, being an onlooker to one was proving interesting. Of course, he didn’t know who anyone was, although no doubt his mother could have filled him in, had she not been so busy gossiping with her two old friends. But that didn’t matter. He could imagine for himself the backgrounds of the various people who drew his attention.

That dainty looking young blade with the much older henna-headed woman who was most definitely not his mother, for example. She had to be well over forty and had once been quite a beauty but now was definitely a little frayed about the edges. Judicious use of cosmetics was fighting a losing battle to maintain the illusion of youth, but the young man hanging on her arm didn’t appear to have noticed. No doubt she possessed skills other than the obvious ones of graceful dancing and flirting, or the young man in question might have moved on to fresher pastures.

The dance was coming to an end. Arabella shot a questioning glance towards her mother who returned the slightest of nods giving her permission to perambulate the room on the arm of her dashing Second Lieutenant. She turned and smiled at one of the other young ladies who’d been part of her eight as though they’d formed some sort of rapport, and the two of them laughed together, making a pretty picture of enjoyment. How sweet it must be to be young and carefree. It felt like an inordinate length of time since Max had last felt young and carefree.

The girl Arabella had been with caught Max’s attention. How could she not have, with her striking good looks. Like the woman with the hapless young blade, this girl had red hair, but hers was a natural russet, piled up on her head in artless curls to frame a dainty face with wide blue eyes the color of cornflowers. A beauty, much as Arabella was, but with entirely different coloring to Arabella’s dark locks and eyes. If he’d been younger, and had an arm that worked, he might have ventured in her direction and asked for an introduction. Although only with the intention of enjoyment, not because she was of the sort he could ever consider countenancing as a possible bride. Far too young and frivolous for him, but great fun to dance with, no doubt. She seemed to have made friends with Arabella, though.

He watched the girl as her jaunty partner led her across the room to rejoin her family, idly curious as to who she was. He already had her down as the daughter of some nabob made rich on pickings from the East Indies.

Her family had clustered in a little group almost opposite where Max was standing. At least, he thought they might be her family. She didn’t seem to resemble any of them at all, so perhaps she was a distant relation being launched into society by a kind aunt and uncle.

The man who might be either her father or uncle, or maybe just a distant cousin, was a portly, balding gentleman in a rather too tight coat and waistcoat, as though he’d put on weight since last he’d worn it, but been too parsimonious to have bought a new one or even let it out. Beside him stood a small, hard-faced woman in a puce dress that didn’t suit her coloring, who surely couldn’t be that beauty’s mother. And behind them, lurking in the shadows just as he was, a taller young woman, head down, her chestnut hair austerely scraped back from her face. She was wearing the plainest gown he’d seen that evening. Dove gray and unadorned with any furbelows. A Plain Jane if ever there was one, so perhaps a paid companion to either the pretty girl or the hard-faced woman.

Even as he watched, another young gentleman approached the group, made his bow, and the pretty girl, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, smiled shyly up at him before taking his arm and letting him lead her onto the dance floor.

But in that moment, Max, ever the people watcher, had noticed something. As the young gentleman approached, the object of his attentions had looked a question at the Plain Jane. The woman had given her an imperceptible nod of approval, as though she were the one in charge of the girl. Definitely a companion. Perhaps a governess. And Max had seen her face more clearly. She wasn’t as plain as all that, after all, but the way her hair had been done served to deprive her of any looks she might aspire to. That and the dress she wore, which would have been better suited to a country dance. However, there was sharp intelligence in her eyes. Eyes that matched the gray of her gown. Yes, the girl she appeared to be chaperoning was pretty, but something about this Plain Jane was infinitely more interesting.

His curiosity was more than aroused. Anything to assuage the boredom he was feeling right now.

His thoughts returned to working out her role in that family. A governess, as he’d thought before, perhaps? Allowed to attend the ball with her charge? How unobtrusive her presence was. Rather like his own. And the parents, if that was who they were, ignored her as though she didn’t matter. Perhaps it was she who was the poor relation, not a governess after all—a distant cousin. The local vicar’s sister? An orphan adopted into the family from the workhouse? Only neither of the parents, from the expressions on their faces, seemed as though they might be given to deeds of charity. His mind juggled stories that might suit the young woman for a minute or two.

His mother’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Max, my dear, I believe it’s nearly time to go in for supper. Can I trouble you to take me for a walk about the ballroom first, so I can see who else I recognize? I fear I’ve monopolized my friends for long enough.”

Lady Routledge and Lady Ponsonby made the sort of polite noises that indicated they’d not thought themselves monopolized, amid promises of further invitations and of calling on one another for afternoon tea. His mother seemed more than satisfied.

Max, his reveries disturbed, pushed the downtrodden girl and her position in that family out of his head and offered the dowager his good arm. “Of course, Mama.”

On the far side of the room, Serafina had just watched Letty go off on the arm of a young man named William Wilton. As she’d predicted, Letty was finding herself popular amongst the young gentlemen present, and her dance card was almost full. Something Araminta had already taken full credit for.

Serafina had been a little surprised that an invitation had arrived so precipitously on their arrival in Town. But Araminta had disclosed, a trifle smugly, that she’d sent letters to some of her old acquaintances letting them know she would be coming up to present her daughter. As her late mother had been a friend of Lady Ponsonby’s, the invitation to come to the ball at Highcourt House had arrived even as Araminta had been approving the servants their new housekeeper had hastily engaged for them.

Luckily, all their new gowns had been made before they left Berkshire by a dressmaker local to Newbury, their nearest town, including this plain gray one for Serafina. As it was the only new gown she’d had in a number of years, Serafina had decided not to turn up her nose but to make the most of it, subscribing to the ‘beggars can’t be choosers’ motto. A few embellishments had turned it into something a little more festive. Some lace she’d had in her treasure box, cut from an old gown she’d outgrown, some ribbons Letty had given her. Until Araminta had seen her in the gown that evening and ordered her to remove every item she’d affixed to it.

“Who on earth do you think you are?” had been her scathing words. “You are not to put yourself forward, as I’ve already told you. Anyone would think you were out to catch yourself a man, if only that weren’t so ridiculous a notion.”

Serafina, seething but silent, and with blazing cheeks, had returned upstairs and deprived her gown of all the little extras she and Letty had so carefully stitched on, in a hurry lest Araminta decided not to wait for her. Who knew what naughtiness Letty might get up to if allowed the sort of free rein her mother might not notice.

Now, Araminta turned to her. “Serafina. Kindly go to the refreshment table and procure me a glass of lemonade. It’s so warm in here, I declare I’m quite parched. Off you go. Hurry yourself. But don’t spill anything.”

Serafina detached herself from where she’d been standing just behind her brother and his wife, and slipped out into the throng of people promenading arm in arm: ladies chattering and gentlemen standing in small defensive groups, eyeing up the young ladies on offer but clearly wary of their matchmaking mamas. The heady perfumes of men and women alike filled the warm air, managing to overlay the unavoidable and singularly less pleasant odor of hot bodies sweating.

A little overcome by the heady feeling of sudden freedom, Serafina took her time as she edged between the press of people. And as she passed between the crowd she could never be one of, she caught snippets of their conversations.

“…and I said who on earth would have thought she would do that…”

“…I’ll lay five guineas you wouldn’t dare…”

“…how much did you say it cost?”

“…that horse of Buxton’s is a flyer…”

“…did you see Westbury’s brother? Back from the war with his right arm in a sling. Stuck like that forever, so they say. Poor chap…”

“…that girl’s a diamond of the first water, you mark my words…’ She smiled a bit as she heard this last remark. The men in question were definitely not talking about her.

She made it to the refreshment table at last, where glasses already holding lemonade stood ready to be taken. Perhaps she’d best take two, as Ogden was likely to decide he too was thirsty if she arrived back with just the one. She picked up two glasses and turned.

Straight into the man behind her. The lemonade slopped over the top of the glasses and down not just the front of her gown, but also the front of the gentleman’s brocade waistcoat and onto the sling his right arm rested in.

Serafina raised horrified eyes to meet his gaze, struck dumb at her own foolishness, but at the same time taking in how handsome the man was. He must have been over six feet tall, with wavy dark hair that might have been said to be a little too long to be fashionable but which gave him a rather swashbuckling look. He was looking down at her out of surprised dark eyes she could quite willingly have melted into.

“I’m so sorry.” His voice was pleasingly deep. “I should be looking where I’m going.”

Serafina found her voice with difficulty. “Oh no.” She had to clear her throat. “It was my fault, not yours. I swung around most precipitously without first making certain no one was behind me. I’m afraid I’ve spoiled your lovely waistcoat.”

The lady on his arm, old enough to be his mother, fixed a hard stare on Serafina. No doubt she was in agreement that it was her fault but was too polite to say so. “Come along, Max,” she said. “Once more around the ballroom and it’ll be time to go into supper. Good evening to you, Miss…?”

“Gilbert.” Serafina’s cheeks glowed with embarrassment at what she’d done, and to a man with his arm in a sling too.

“Miss Gilbert,” the man said, in a way no one had ever said her name before. “Captain Max Aubrey at your service. And this is my mother, the Dowager Countess of Westbury. I seem to have inadvertently caused damage to your gown. I’d be happy to pay for it to be cleaned. Or to pay for a new one if you think it past repair.”

Serafina stared at him for a second, remembering what she’d overheard on her way to the refreshments, before letting her gaze drop to her gown front. The lemonade had left a dark mark over the pale gray fabric. “Oh no. It’s nothing. I’ll easily be able to get the mark out. I’m very good at cleaning. No need for you to do anything. It was all my fault. I’m so clumsy.” She really couldn’t let him take the blame for this. “I’m always being reprimanded for not looking where I’m going.”

“Max.” His mother sounded impatient.

The far-too-handsome Captain Max Aubrey, no doubt a wounded war hero, made Serafina a bow. “If you’re certain?”

“I am.” Was her voice shaking just a little?

“Then I must obey my mother and complete our tour of the ballroom. She’s anxious to seek out her old friends. Good evening to you, Miss Gilbert.”

And he was gone.

Serafina stood very still, a glass in each hand, staring after him as he walked away: at his straight back, the broad shoulders filling out his coat in the most satisfying manner, and his martial walk that he’d measured to match his mother’s slower pace. That hair. Those interested dark eyes. That mouth. Good heavens. What was she thinking? A man like that would never be interested in a plain little mouse such as she.

Giving herself a little shake, she set off back to deliver the lemonade to Ogden and Araminta.