Page 35 of Pride of Honor

With the exceptionof the first few moments of standing in the receiving line with Lord Howick and Lydia, Sophie had felt, if not fully accepted by the glittering guests, at least not shunned. She’d taken deep breaths and weighed her answers to questions carefully, making sure she smiled warmly no matter how stiff and forced the greetings seemed.

Madame Bonheur’s ball gown and Lydia’s maid’s inspired dressing of her hair braced her confidence to get through the evening. But, oh Lord, she hadn’t yet made it through the first dance, which Lydia informed her with glee would be her duty to lead out, since the ball was in her honor.

The white plumes of feathers fastened above her elaborate coiffure swayed and tickled her nose with every move. She struggled to keep a sneeze from spoiling the whole effect.

Lighted candelabras atop massed flowers on every available flat surface shimmered before her eyes, making her doubt her balance.Wonderful. She’d lead out the first dance only to fall flat on her face. She hoped Dr. MacCloud would catch her in time. His was the first name on her dance card. Maybe she should warn him…

“Stop.” Lydia spoke low with a hiss close to her ear. “I know what’s spinning round in that beautiful Italian head of yours, so just stop. You look perfect in your gown. You’ve said all the right things. Now enjoy yourself and stop expecting the worst of calamities to happen.”

Sophie was only half-listening to Lydia. Her eyes instead sought the various nooks of the ballroom for the grumpy, unforgiving face of her bodyguard. Ah, there. He leaned against a far wall near the exit to the garden, like an avenging dark angel in a stark black wool cutaway jacket and trousers, his arms folded across his chest. He swept the room with stern looks, pausing from time to time on one guest or another. Goodness. She hoped no one else noticed his hawkish regard of the Howick guests.

Too late. Lord Howick had just descended on Arnaud and called over a servant with a tray of flutes of champagne. She could imagine her benefactor urging Arnaud to soften his demeanor a bit. Arnaud refused refreshment, but did seemed to relax and laugh at something Lord Howick said.

Arnaud’s surgeon gave her a broad smile and a roguish wink before taking her hand and drawing her over to the dance master to choose her favorite dance, the quadrille. That was the one she remembered best from all the lessons she and Lydia had endured from their dance tutor every week.

Once she took her place across from Cullen and the rest of the dancers filled in the line behind them, the orchestra began to play. Her doubts vanished into the magic of the music. She thanked her guardian stars for having given her over to such true friends as the Howicks. She and Cullen whirled through all of the dance figures and returned to their original places at the head of the line before she realized she’d done what she didn’t think she could. She’d stood her ground before the leaders of thetonand refused to acknowledge the whispers behind fans or the openly curious stares.

She fancied her mother stood somewhere amidst the glittering couples thronging the Howick ballroom, happy for her and wishing her a wiser love and luck. Her beautiful mother had forsaken the comfortable life of a duke’s daughter to follow a tragic love to ruin in Italy and beyond with a hopelessly romantic poet. Sophie vowed to protect her own heart. She would never forsake a child of her own to a life of poverty and shame.

Of course Sophie’s father had loved her, in spite of his wastrel ways. He’d provided for her in small things and sudden extravagances in spite of his shortcomings. She shivered a bit with only a rose-colored, gossamer silk shawl covering her shoulders and wished his last gift could have complimented her ball gown. The madly colorful, woolen paisley shawl Paolo Brancelli had given her just months before he died was folded in lavender at the bottom of her wardrobe back in her bedchamber.

After leading Sophie back to Lady Howick’s side, Dr. MacCloud leaned in and asked if she needed a glass of punch before the next dance. Lady Howick answered for her. “Of course she needs punch, and I will take some lemonade, young man.”

He smiled and headed toward the refreshment tables.

Sophie sat in the gilded, cushioned chair next to her patroness, and turned her head, searching the ballroom for Arnaud. She thought she was being surreptitious, but Lady Howick abruptly said, “He’s over there,” and nodded toward a marble nymph guarding a palm tree.

Sophie followed Lady Howick’s nod to where Lydia was engaged in what appeared to be serious conversation with Arnaud. He in turn was giving her friend a look Sophie knew only too well. An eye roll and lift of chin that usually signaled he’d made up his mind. Don’t try to change it, thank you very much. She nearly giggled when she saw Lydia attempting to launch an argument. One of his eyebrows lifted in what always meant, “Conversation over.”

When had she begun to catalogue his conversational habits and the language of his expressions?

Next to her, Lady Howick gave out a tiny, tinkling laugh. “Those young men of the Squadron have been good for Lydia. She needs to see how real men cannot be budged from their duties to engage in inane ballroom gossip.”

At that moment, Arnaud’s Marine Captain Neville came up to Lydia and asked a question. Lydia’s mouth dropped open and nothing seemed to come out. She merely turned and followed him back toward the entrance to the garden where he’d been standing guard. That was a first. Lydia with nothing to say.

When Sophie turned toward Lady Howick for confirmation of what she’d just seen, her patroness nodded and smiled. “Yes, I’m quite as amazed as you. I’ve never seen her at a loss for words, either. Not since she started babbling as a babe.”

Lord Howick approached from across the room where he’d been engaged in deep conversation with a number of fellow members of the House of Lords. He had a tall young gentleman in tow. After stopping several times to exchange pleasantries with other guests, they stopped in front of Sophie and Lady Howick.

“Miss Brancelli, please allow me to introduce Mr. John Bellingham, grandson of Lord Whittingdon. Mr. Bellingham, Miss Sophia Brancelli, and my mother, the dowager Marchioness of Howick. I believe you and Miss Brancelli met in passing in the park last week.”

Sophie returned his bow, and Lady Howick nodded an acknowledgement.

“I am extremely happy to renew our acquaintance,” he said to Sophie. “Would you and Lady Howick like me to bring you glasses of punch?”

“Yes, please,” Sophie said. “I am parched from meeting and talking to so many of Lord Howick’s wonderful guests, and I’m sure Lady Howick would appreciate refreshment as well.”

Lady Howick nodded again and gave him an encouraging smile.

After he straightened and headed for the banquet table, Sophie finally recalled the brief meeting along the path in the park. John Bellingham was Arnaud’s cousin, but the inverse of her dark, stern bodyguard. He was fair and quite tall, but still, he had the same strong nose and full lips.Ah, family traits.

And speaking of family traits, she spied Arnaud at his post near the entryway to the ballroom. She suspected he’d seen his cousin being introduced to her, and the stormy look on his face made her heart leap.Jealousy. Or so her silly heart hoped. Maybe her overweeningly serious guard did have some feelings for her. Perhaps he still remembered the short, awkward kiss they’d shared the day his mother’s naughty cat had been chased up the tree by her even naughtier dog, Lancelot. Perhaps.

She sighed and turned to greet Mr. Bellingham on his return from the refreshment table.

He handed the women their glasses of punch before turning to stare at his cousin across the way. “Is it true, Miss Brancelli?”

Sophie paused mid-sip and gave him a questioning look.