Page 12 of Lady Like

Harry leans against the glass wall of the Majorbanks’s orangery, a vision in burgundy, sipping fortified punch.

She’s half listening to the man at her elbow, who is wearing so many shades of pink as to resemble a salmon canapé, as he recounts with agonizing specificity the time he met Edmund Kean at a cricket match.

Though the further he gets into the story, the more Harry suspects he actually met a cove who happened to have the same small, pointed mustache as the famous actor.

This night, she thinks, is nothing like she hoped it would be.

For one thing, Alexander has not yet appeared, and she is beginning to doubt he’ll come at all.

For another, upon securing the invitation, Collin insisted on accompanying her in order to make introductions to eligible gentlemen.

She told him plainly that she was only interested in Alexander, but Collin insisted.

Though she has avoided her brother most of the night, he has still sent a parade of dull gents her way, of which the canapé is the latest.

Harry surveys the crowded ballroom, potted trees lining the perimeter dotted with bright colored birds in gold cages.

A gallopade has just finished, and the musicians are taking a recess.

And there—at long last!—is Alexander, bobbing like a swan in a sea of mothers extolling the virtues of their unwed daughters.

“Will you excuse me?” Harry says to not–Edmund Kean’s friend and leaves before he can respond. “Alexander!” she calls, relishing the brandy-sweet taste of addressing him by his invited name.

The mamas’ heads all whip toward her, like flags in a wind that has abruptly changed directions. Alexander looks too, brow furrowed for a moment before he recognizes his rescuer.

His eyes widen. “Harry,” he says, then catches himself and amends, “Miss Lockhart.”

“May I steal you away?” She fastens her hand around his arm, dragging him gently toward the refreshment table. “I have a question about this camellia by the punch bowl.”

“Ah yes, I do love a good camellia.” Alexander falls into step beside her, letting her lead him behind one of the exotic fruit trees that line the dance floor.

Once they’re out of sight, he collapses with his head against her shoulder in relief.

“You didn’t actually have a question about camellias, did you? ”

“Don’t be silly. Here.” She scoops up two glasses of punch from the table and presses one into his hands. “Cheers.”

Alexander clinks his cup against hers. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m attending a ball in hopes of securing a spouse,” she replies, resisting the urge to punch him on the arm, as she suspects the gesture will not make her look particularly wifely. “The same as you.”

“Oh. Well. That’s…” Alexander is staring at…not quite her breasts, but breasts adjacent. It’s like looking at someone’s forehead instead of their eyes when speaking. He reaches out suddenly, almost like he’s in a trance, and takes the pearled hem of her sleeve between his fingers.

“Alex,” Harry says, and he drops his hand quickly.

“Right, yes.” He shakes his head, like he’s trying to rouse himself. “Well, Godspeed, I hope you find this man.”

“Alexander.” She catches his hand. “Don’t be dim.”

He rolls his neck, staring up at the ceiling with a sigh. “Harry. I can’t.”

“Look at me!” She spreads her arms, indicating the dress, the hair, the breasts, all of which was chosen specifically to convey, I can be suitable. I can be respectable. I can be equally favored with your stuffy parents and the Sapphist set of the London theater.

Alexander does indeed look. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “You are a sight tonight, I daresay.”

“Aren’t I?” She touches her wig, the same warm brown of her hair. One of the dressers at the Palace helped her pin it so expertly it’s almost impossible to tell it’s a piece.

“Is it too forward to say you look beautiful?”

“Far too forward. You can make up for the impropriety with an equally inappropriate waltz.” She plucks the pencil from her reticule and opens her dance card. “Now, is it Alex with an A ?”

“Saucy.” He slaps the card playfully so it falls to the end of its ribbon around her wrist. “Go on then. Let’s have a dance. Put me down for—”

But he is interrupted when someone knocks his shoulder from behind. Alexander turns to apologize to a slight blonde in a white dress, just as she drops her fan. He retrieves it for her and returns it with a smile. She curtsies, cheeks red, and departs.

The entire interaction is minuscule. Ordinary. It should be nothing.

But Alexander’s eyes linger on the woman, mapping her thin frame, her white gown, her modest blond hair swept into an elegant arrangement. Beautiful and conventional and as different to Harry as sun and shadow.

“Alexander,” she prompts.

“Apologies.” Alexander rubs the back of his neck. “What were we…”

“The waltz,” Harry says. “That you’ll dance with me.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll…” Alexander turns around again, and hellfire and damnation, he’s looking for that slight blonde in the slight dress, she’s sure of it. “Do you know who that was?”

“Who?”

“That woman. The one who dropped her fan.”

“Oh, Bathsheba?”

He’s practically standing on his toes, pawing at the foliage for a better view of the floor. “Do you know her?”

“I can’t recall, her face was so forgettable.

” Harry flicks his shoulder with her dance card.

She meant for it to be playful, but she thumps him hard enough that he flinches.

“What about my waltz?” Harry says, though it feels like she’s bailing out a sinking ship with a teaspoon.

“I think it’s customary to put your name down. ”

“Yes, right, I’ll just…give me a moment, will you?”

“Alex—”

But he holds up a hand and says, still searching the floor, “I’ll find you later.”

Harry watches him go, unable to think of something to say that would make him reconsider his pursuit of that tiny blond ladybird.

She blows a sharp breath through her nose, pressing down on her back teeth.

Can she intervene? Should she? Surely once Alexander actually talks to a diamond of the first water, he’ll realize how much better Harry is in comparison.

But before she can decide, a hand fastens on her elbow, and Collin’s voice tickles her ear. “I managed to secure you an invitation tonight. The least you can do is acknowledge me.”

Harry tries to twist from his grip, but he holds firm. “Consider yourself acknowledged.”

“Come, there’s someone I want to introduce you to.”

“No need—I found Rochester.”

“Your beau? He’s here?” Collin looks around. “Then you can introduce me to him.”

“I’d prefer not to.”

Collin frowns. His dark suit looks expensive, though Harry notices a spot of what is almost certainly Havoc’s drool on his cuff. “Why not?”

“Because you’ll find a thousand tiny flaws that disqualify him from marrying me, when the only real thing that’s got you in a twist is that you didn’t pick him.”

“I will not.”

“You already don’t like him because he and I are friends.”

“Well.” Collin’s eyebrows twitch. “Even you must admit you aren’t the best judge of character.”

“Jesus Christ,” Harry says, forgetting for a moment she’s meant to be respectable. “I shan’t introduce you. And don’t go looking for him.”

“I won’t—”

“Promise me.” Harry presses a fist to his chest, over his heart. “You’ll meet him in time. I just need to clear up a few details first.”

Collin stares at her for a moment, then fastens his hand around her fist. “I promise, I will not speak to your Duke of Rochester without an introduction from you first.” Harry is about to thank him, but Collin interrupts her.

“But if you’re looking for someone our father will deem acceptable, you need to look beyond your own circles.

Which is why—Mr. Barker!” Collin calls, and Harry realizes that her brother is waving over a middle-aged man with so much hair growing from his nose it could be fashioned into a mustache.

Harry tries to run, but Collin still has her wrist in a genteel shackle. “Mr. Barker, allow me to introduce my sister, Harriet Lockhart. Harry, this is Mr. John Barker. I thought you two might get along, as he’s a great admirer of the Bard.”

“Collin,” Harry says, but Collin is passing her hand to the gentleman like he’s handing over the lead of a dog. “I must find—”

“The lady does too much protesting, methinks!” Collin says to Mr. Barker with a hearty laugh.

“That,” Harry says, “is not the quotation.”

“Ah well, I’ll let you two recite it correctly on the dance floor.” And, with a last vicious smile, Collin scampers back into the trees like a matchmaking squirrel, leaving Harry alone with a thoroughly unappealing suitor.

“Miss Lockhart.” Mr. Barker gives her a small bow. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

“No, no, I’m quite all right,” Harry says. At that moment, she feels herself more a frosty night in an interminable January.

“Perhaps you might accompany me for the next quadrille. I can favor you with a recitation from Coriolanus while we dance.”

Of course that’s the play he would select.

There is no way she can be expected to dance a whole set with this man and not make an anus joke.

The injustice of being a lady! The cruelty of her father the prince!

She wishes she could hand this Mr. Barker off to one of the other women here, like a present at Christmas received and then given again at the next holiday.

Or. Perhaps she can.

“Mr. Barker,” she says, the idea still forming as she speaks, “Have you yet seen Macbeth at the Palace Theater?”

“Ah, you mean the Scottish play?” He presses a finger to his lips, invoking the theatrical superstition, and Harry indulges him by mimicking the gesture. “It is my favorite of the Bard’s tragedies, though I’ve never had the opportunity to see it staged.”

“Alas, there are not many performances left, and I hear it’s hard to secure a seat. However.” She pauses, feigning consideration. “I am well acquainted with one of the actresses.”

Mr. Barker’s nose hair twitches. “Are actresses not”—he lowers his voice—“all whores?”

“Of course,” Harry says seriously. “I met her through a charitable foundation that gives them Bibles, for which I volunteer my time.”

“I see.” Mr. Barker nods, his moral objection to actresses in no way extending to a moral objection to the theater itself.

“As thanks for teaching her Scripture and needlework, the actress in question offered me a box at the final performance, but a lady such as myself would never set foot in such a den of iniquity.” She presses an aggrieved hand to her chest. “Might you want to take my place?”

He runs a hand over his chin. “If the seats would otherwise go to waste, I would be happy to—”

“Ah!” Harry holds up a finger. “But wait, Mr. Barker. There is something you must do for me first.”