Page 59

The Season was in full swing, and perhaps it was no surprise that an opportunity to encounter Miss Nightingale and her chaperon and aunt should have presented itself most conveniently that very evening, at Lady Sefton’s ball.

Naturally, Dominic had been invited; naturally, his mother was confident that Miss Nightingale would also be there.

A less cynical man might have described it as providential.

Dominic, if he attended such dull affairs at all, generally arrived shockingly late, but on this occasion he entered the glittering ballroom precisely at the time specified by Lady De Lacy.

To do otherwise would be rude, he knew, and the whole situation was awkward enough without offering an egregious insult to the woman he must accustom himself – unless anything unforeseen should happen to prevent it, perhaps a meteor strike, a royal death or an invasion by the French – to think of as his prospective bride.

He bowed punctiliously over Miss Maria’s hand, and that of her duenna Mrs Greystone, a harassed-looking woman in puce satin trimmed with Mechlin lace.

He didn’t care much for the puce, but he could find no fault with Miss Nightingale’s dress and demeanour.

He didn’t recall ever having set eyes on her before, now that he saw her, or even having heard her name mentioned in conversation, though he was slightly acquainted with her half-brother Francis, who was a man of about his own age who he’d seen occasionally around the town, but at Cribb’s Parlour and the like, he thought, not at balls and fashionable soirées.

He banished a fugitive longing for the uncomplicated, undemanding masculine comfort of Cribb’s Parlour from his mind now.

The young lady was tall and elegant in white silk.

He’d have remembered her, he was almost sure, if he’d met her before.

She was not willowy and fragile, but robustly built, along fashionably ample lines; she looked like the strong horsewoman his mother had claimed she was.

Perhaps that much, at least, was true. And it would be perverse to deny that she was attractive.

Her features were classical in their regularity, and in their marble immobility – objectively, she was beautiful, only that she lacked all animation.

Her eyes were large and blue, her golden hair curlier than the current mode but arranged with propriety and taste, her smile quite mechanical.

She reminded him rather of an automaton he had once seen displayed.

See the simulacrum of a lady! Watch her speak, and marvel at how lifelike she is.

But it was entirely wrong to blame her. He was sure he was not a whit better in her eyes.

How could he be? In that sense, if in no other, they should make a fine pair, and could be set in a shop window as an advertisement.

Her voice, when they conversed, was low and pleasant.

She said nothing of any note, but then nor did he.

If he saw no particular sign of her much-vaunted intelligence on this occasion, he couldn’t flatter himself that he made a more creditable showing.

It was a horribly awkward situation for them both, and worse for her.

She must be conscious that he was here to look her over; she might as well have been a horse at Tattersalls, or some other piece of expensive bloodstock, and what could she do but endure it, no matter her private feelings?

She was, he thought, close to paralysed with acute discomfort, which was understandable, and concealing it with an effort that he found admirable.

A less perceptive man would surely have noticed nothing amiss.

He consoled himself with the thought that a woman who had enough sensibility and good taste greatly to dislike the circumstances in which she found herself might, just might, be someone he could one day communicate with in an honest fashion.

If he couldn’t have love in marriage, or anywhere else – and, after ten years spent in the best society without a single hint of it, and without being too horribly self-pitying over the matter, it seemed he couldn’t – he could at least have honesty and mutual respect.

It didn’t seem too much to ask for. If Miss Nightingale had been giggling, arch, triumphant, shooting him vulgar and flirtatious glances under her lashes, looking around to see who was watching them, the situation would have been unendurable.

Be damned to his mother’s plans and even his father’s dying wishes, if she’d been that sort of creature.

Perhaps he’d been hoping she would be… But she wasn’t.

She was a lovely young woman who was just as trapped as he was, and for the moment that would have to be enough.

If he couldn’t imagine kissing her, making love to her – and he couldn’t, any more than to one of the marble statues in his hall – he must hope that that desire would come eventually, for both of them.

Dominic asked for the honour of a waltz with her, and they danced; she was coolly graceful and correct, and once more recalled the automaton he’d seen, which had moved in a similar fashion.

They exchanged a few more commonplaces – the weather, the great crowd at the ball, the sad news of the King’s continuing ill-health – and then a short while later they stepped out together a second time.

On this occasion, they spoke, though he had no idea how the topic arose – perhaps she raised it – of their shared admiration for the distinguished author of Evelina , who, he was able to tell her, had been a regular correspondent of his late father.

His mother would no doubt have been on the lookout for signs of excessive erudition, but he was merely glad to have something slightly more substantial to discuss.

This innocuous subject allowing them to converse with rather less awkwardness, the dance passed more swiftly.

He was aware of a little hum of interest from their fellow guests, of sharp eyes upon them, of whispers of gossip.

It was quite unexceptionable, for a lady and a gentleman to be partners twice in an evening, but it wasn’t the sort of thing Beau De Lacy normally did.

He wasn’t the type of man to flirt with debutantes or raise expectations he had no intention of fulfilling.

And so conclusions would inevitably be drawn. Correct conclusions, as it happened.

Later, Dominic would wish he’d taken a little more time and a little more care – had asked Miss Maria to go driving in the park with him, perhaps, setting down his groom so they could converse in something like privacy.

But, aware of how much she seemed to dislike the public gaze, he’d decided not to wait, not to prolong pointlessly this unpleasantness and uncertainty.

Miss Nightingale clearly knew of his intentions, and he thought – entirely and disastrously wrongly, as it turned out – that she would be more comfortable when matters were decided, and public interest had peaked and inevitably waned.

People, even in the haut ton, got married every day, after all.

The novelty could hardly persist, and other subjects for gossip would inevitably arise.

After a little while – too soon – he’d gone to see her father, had received his gracious permission to address her, and then had formally proffered his suit to her and been accepted.

The announcement had been inserted in the fashionable newspapers, and he received the congratulations of almost every one of his acquaintance; many of these people might even be sincere in their good wishes for his future happiness.

It was a highly suitable match, after all, in terms of age, birth, reputation and fortune.

Marriage settlements were being drawn up: generous ones, on his part, to give his future wife as much financial independence as was possible.

The date was set, just a few weeks away.

Why wait? Though it was no concern of his, he presumed that bride clothes were being purchased, and a wedding gown, and all manner of feminine fripperies.

Now it was the evening of their engagement party – another step in the swift, inexorable progress towards their union. And still they’d had no private conversation.