The Birth of Blue Satan Page 4

  Fortune would secure his welcome in this gathering. But Hester wondered how annoyed he would be to find that his late arrival had given Isabella the excuse she needed to avoid dancing with him.

  Reaching Mrs. Mayfield’s side, Mr. Letchworth sketched her a bow just as Sir Harrowby turned to hail a friend.

  Moving aside to let him pass, Hester returned to her place in time to hear Mr. Letchworth compliment her aunt on Isabella’s appearance this evening. He suggested that rubies would become her daughter very well. Mrs. Mayfield accepted these comments with all her usual pride but she could not hide her relish in informing him that Isabella’s dances had been claimed for the rest of the night. Seeing that neither he nor her aunt intended to include her in their conversation, Hester turned her attention to the dancers and missed witnessing his disappointment. A few moments later, she saw him retreating in the direction from which he had come.

  At that moment, Sir Harrowby bid his friend goodbye. Turning back, he noticed Hester and gave a start. “Ah, there you are, Miss Kean. I vow, you are so silent, ma’am, I had no idea you was here. What say you about that fellow who was just speaking to your aunt? Would you care to set your cap his way?” He giggled at his joke.

  Hester smothered her annoyance at hearing herself addressed as “miss” when politeness dictated that ladies both married and unmarried were to be called “Mrs.” Instead, she bestowed a tolerant smile on Sir Harrowby, whose intention was to include her in their speech as one of Isabella’s family, even if she was only a servant.

  “I think not, sir,” she said. “I am afraid Mr. Letchworth is too stern a gentleman for me.”

  Her aunt stepped between them, issuing a sharp snort of laughter. “Fie on you again, sir! Next, you will be turning my niece’s head with thoughts of my Lord St. Mars, as if his lordship and Mr. Letchworth was not both head over heels in love with my Isabella. I vow, the letters that gentleman writes are so hot with passion as to put her mama to the blush! Lucky for you, Miss Kean has no illusions about the nature of her own attractions, else your sport would be cruel indeed.”

  At her spiteful tone, Sir Harrowby gave a blink, before something she had said seemed to catch at his mind. “Do you mean to tell me, ma’am, that Mr. Letchworth has been courting Mrs. Isabella?”

  Hester’s aunt turned more playful. “Can you doubt it, Sir Harrowby? My Isabella has all the gentlemen wooing her.”

  “Zounds, madam! But that is infamous! What infernal impudence!”

  “I think I know what you are about, naughty sir! You would have all my daughter’s suitors passed on to someone else so that you could have a clear field for yourself.”

  She tapped him playfully on the arm. “Confess now, sir! That was what you was about. Lud, but you gentlemen are all alike where my daughter is concerned—playing off your tricks and making threats to cut each other out—but you cannot win her from me that way, and so I shall warn Isabella.” With a smirk, she spread a chicken-skin fan and fluttered it before her painted face.

  “I trust that you have given Mr. Letchworth a sense of the futility of his hopes,” Sir Harrowby said, raising his brows with a hint of offence.

  Since Mrs. Mayfield had done her best to do just that with respect to himself, he was not best pleased when she said, “Why, no, sir. It is not for me to be scaring off my daughter’s suitors, though I hardly need tell you that that particular gentleman is not on the list of my daughter’s favourites. Family as you are to my Lord St. Mars—”

  A movement near the door caught her eye. “Why, here he is at last! I wondered what was keeping his lordship, since he particularly asked my Isabella to save him a dance.”

  Hester turned reflexively, in time to see St. Mars give one quick glance about the room before spying Mrs. Mayfield and heading purposefully towards her. He ignored a few hostile looks as he made his way through the largely Whig crowd. By inviting St. Mars, Lord Eppington had proved himself an advocate of the new politeness, which maintained that party differences should be set aside for the enjoyment of society. Hester was glad for the openness that had brought St. Mars within their circle, even if she had no illusions about his interest in her. It was enough simply to have known such a perfect gentleman.

  He seemed to sense her scrutiny, so she averted her gaze until his arrival could render her attention more appropriate. But those few moments’ lack of guard had been enough to set her pulse to thumping. No matter how hard she tried to restrain it, her heart would always flutter when my Lord St. Mars was about.

  St. Mars never gave the impression of a gentleman who belonged in a ballroom, although none could fault either his manners or his dress. The trouble was the feeling that issued from him, of an immense energy threatening to burst its restraints—a need for greater space than a ballroom allowed, which always left Hester with the sense that he would rather be flying over hedges on a horse than sitting inside. She had formed this opinion of him when he had made his initial call upon Isabella only two months ago. Although his deportment had been without exception correct, Mrs. Mayfield’s drawing room had scarcely seemed large enough to hold him.

  As he reached them and greetings began, Hester was at last free to take in his handsome features, the grace in his movements, and the sinewy strength of his hands.

  St. Mars made them each a courtly bow, Hester included. Not for Lord St. Mars the sneering nod or the indifferent stare. His lordship’s manners were so engaging, he made each recipient of his attention believe he had no one else in mind. The smile he gave Hester was both inclusive and warm. It sent a tingle down her spine, even as she noted how soon his gaze left hers to search the crowd for Isabella.

  “Your servant, Mrs. Mayfield, Mrs. Kean, Harrowby. I do not see Mrs. Isabella Mayfield this evening. I hope she is well?”

  This was another thing that Hester appreciated about St Mars. He never neglected to address her as a lady. Her aunt had often slighted her when presenting her to Isabella’s suitors, who usually followed her lead. Lord St. Mars had just as politely ignored it.

  Mrs. Mayfield was answering his question. “My Isabella is as well as can be expected, my lord, for a girl as has had to dance these past three hours and more without a moment’s break.” Her look was arch as she pointed her fan towards Isabella, who was curtsying to the Duke. “I vow, I shall have to put my foot down and insist that she rest a bit before supper, else she’ll never choke down a bite, she’ll be so worn out.”

  St. Mars’s blue eyes dimmed as he noticed the identity of Isabella’s partner, and Hester’s heart went out to him. Something about him this evening did not appear quite right. He seemed unnaturally subdued, and his face was colourless above the white lace at his throat.

  “I hope you will not be adamant on that subject, ma’am, before I have had a chance to dance with her myself.”

  “Why, as to that—” Mrs. Mayfield began coyly—she would not wish to offend St. Mars, not until the Duke was firmly caught— “I think I could bring her to take one more for your lordship’s sake. But it would seem, my lord, that if you was wishing for my daughter’s hand in a dance, you would have come earlier this evening. You know how sought after my Isabella is.”

  “I wished to do so, but was detained. Nothing but an urgent call from Rotherham Abbey could have made me appear this late.”

  “From your papa?” Mrs. Mayfield asked, a bit too eagerly. “Now, what can Lord Hawkhurst have wanted, I wonder?”

  The freezing look Lord St. Mars gave her was so unlike him that Hester winced at her aunt’s impertinence. There was something in his look that made her fear Lord Hawkhurst had had nothing good to say about his son’s feelings for Isabella.

  “It was nothing that should interest you, ma’am.” He turned his back on Mrs. Mayfield’s impudent stare. Keeping his eyes off Isabella and her partner with a remarkable show of will, he turned to Hester instead. “You are not dancing, Mrs. Kean. May I beg your hand to finish this set?”

  Hester started to smile, a quiver mount
ing from her stomach into her throat, though a drawn look about his eyes made her hesitate just an instant too long.

  “Now, my lord—” with a quelling look at Hester and a frown that threw daggers, Mrs. Mayfield intervened— “you would disturb the lines if you was to enter the dance this late. The set is just about over, I believe.”

  St. Mars was turning towards her in astonishment, when he caught Hester’s rueful expression, and an unmistakable flicker of amusement lit his eyes. A look of understanding passed between them. Faced with his awareness of her aunt’s machinations, Hester could not restrain a smile, and she had to bow her head to hide it.

  “We shall wait, then,” his lordship said, with a profound bow—more to disguise his own grin, she guessed, than to punctuate his statement— “until the start of another dance.”

  Hester did her best to squelch the feeling of hope these words gave her. Chances were, she and Lord St. Mars would never have that dance. But the look he had given her, a recognition that she was possessed of a wit he could enjoy, had done more to speed her heartbeat this evening than any other gentleman’s more formal attentions.

  The Duke of Bournemouth escorted Isabella back. Greetings followed in which Hester played no part. Being ignored allowed her to observe the gentlemen’s faces to see if she could determine the depth of their feelings for her cousin or indeed Isabella’s for them.

  As she’d expected, his Grace showed none of the need to feast his eyes on her cousin that the younger men did, though St. Mars did his best to conceal his desire. Much to Hester’s annoyance, the Duke seemed amused. An air of superiority attended all of his remarks, since he knew fully well his claim would be favoured over any other’s, should he choose to make it.

  But there was something in his attitude tonight that made her believe he had wearied of Isabella’s charms. Mrs. Mayfield would have noticed that his Grace had solicited her daughter’s hand for only one dance, when more would have been allowed. And, contrary to his behaviour at their last two meetings, he had made no attempt to get Isabella alone.

  Now Hester saw a distance in his expression, and she experienced a pang, the cause of which she instantly recognized. She could not be entirely thrilled that St. Mars would have an unobstructed path to her cousin, even though his plans to wed could have nothing at all to do with her. She simply believed that he could do much better for himself—that he would find greater happiness if married to someone other than Isabella. Someone with a livelier intelligence than her cousin possessed.

  Isabella had spoken to him with all the unaffected pleasure with which she greeted her swains. But she had quickly turned away and now was tapping her foot and looking about the ballroom at the ladies’ finery, to all appearances unaware of St. Mars’s burning gaze.

  If he would only look at her with that heat in his eyes, Hester thought, she would swoon on the spot. But, she reflected, neither St. Mars’s desire nor his looks should be of interest to her.

  When the Duke of Bournemouth took his leave, Mrs. Mayfield endeavoured to keep Sir Harrowby engaged in conversation so as to allow Isabella and St. Mars to talk aside. Anxious not to appear to be overhearing them, but trapped beside them in the crush of people, Hester turned her back so they would think she was enjoying the sight of the dancers she had been forced to watch all night.

  St. Mars’s voice, with its deep, masculine tones, still reached her ears.

  “Forgive me for arriving so late this evening, Mrs. Isabella. Dare I hope you’ve saved at least one dance for me?”

  “Faith, sir, you will have to ask my mama, for I’ve made so many promises, I’ve well nigh forgot to who. Apply to her now, if you will, for I see Lord Kirkland bearing this way, and the next is his.”

  “Isabella—”

  Hester winced at the urgency in St. Mars’s voice before he was cut off by a gentleman demanding Isabella’s attention. After a few polite exchanges, Lord Kirkland swept by Hester, leading Isabella out onto the floor.

  Hester would not let herself turn around. She would not turn around to see the light going out of St. Mars’s eyes.

  After a few moments, he stepped up beside her. His lips were compressed into a thin, bloodless line. When he felt her sympathetic gaze upon him, he responded with a self-disparaging grin, which lightened his features but did not remove the worry from his eyes.

  “Mrs. Kean—” he bowed with a flourish— “would you take pity upon me and favour me with this dance?”

  Hester made a quick search over her shoulder, but Mrs. Mayfield was more than ten feet away, engaged in conversation with a countess, and so could neither frown at Hester nor interfere.

  “I should be delighted, my lord.” Hester started to smile, before St. Mars, stepping forward to take her hand, suddenly turned a ghastly pale and wavered on his feet. She reached one hand to grasp his elbow. “My lord?”

  “It is nothing.” The colour of his cheeks and a hint of sweat upon his brow belied his words. “However, it might be best if we sat this dance out, if you will forgive me.”

  Suppressing her keen disappointment, Hester looked quickly about and spied two chairs just being vacated in an alcove to the right. “Certainly, my lord. Will you come this way?”

  Gideon offered her his arm and did his best to lead her in the direction she’d indicated, without passing out from the sudden dizziness that had seized him. His infernal wound had begun to throb, to which must be added the effect of the frustration he always felt in Isabella’s presence. He tried not to lean on Mrs. Kean, but he found he needed her support. Fortunately, she gave it without appearing to mind, as she remarked on the beauty of Lady Eppington’s decorations.

  A likeable girl, Mrs. Kean. Now that he thought of it, he had always enjoyed her company, ever since that first day they had met in Isabella’s drawing room. There was something in those cool, grey eyes of hers that was reassuring. A man always knew where he stood with Mrs. Kean—she was honest, and something told him she had a sense of humour, too. She had not called anyone’s attention to his dizziness either, for which he was sincerely grateful.

  They reached the alcove, and Gideon insisted on seating her before he lowered himself into his own chair. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I cannot think what came over me. But I would not wish to embarrass you on the ballroom floor.”

  “Are you quite all right? I could fetch a doctor.”

  He gave a quick laugh. “Now you sound like my groom.”

  At her quizzical look, he explained, “I meant that quite kindly, I assure you. My groom, Thomas Barnes, has taken good care of me since I was a babe in leading strings, which makes him inclined to assert the privilege of a nurse. I have just had to discourage him from hovering over me in the most discountenancing way.”

  “I see.” In spite of these words, she studied him cautiously as if worrying out a puzzle. “Was there some reason, my lord, why your groom believed you should have a doctor called?”

  “No, nothing—” But Gideon found he could not lie to Mrs. Kean, not with those intelligent eyes of hers fixed upon his face. “That is to say, I did have an altercation earlier this evening, which is one of the reasons I was late. A fellow assaulted me in the street, but I only took a scratch.”

  Her eyes flickered. “An assault, my lord?”

  He chuckled and tried to shrug, but his arm had begun to ache miserably, and the room seemed to turn before his eyes. He could hardly conceal his pain. “Yes, but it is no matter now. Tell me something about yourself, Mrs. Kean. We have talked about me long enough.”

  “I shall tell you about myself if you like,” she said slowly, “but only if you promise that you will alert me the instant you wish me to stop. The look of your brow makes me think you are taking a fever.”

  “Does it?” Gideon reached up and felt the dampness on his forehead. When he moved the arm from his side, he felt a sudden chill. “Very well, I promise to let you know. But you made a promise to divert me, and I am determined to hold you to it.”

 
“If you insist, but I must warn you. My life is so far from fascinating, you would do better to let me tell you a fairy tale.”

  “That would be cheating.”

  “Would it? Oh, dear. As you like, then . . . .”

  She seemed at a loss where to begin. In spite of the stabbing pain in his arm and an uncontrollable shiver, Gideon felt a smile tickling the corners of his mouth. It was refreshing to find a woman who was not too eager to talk to no purpose. Mrs. Kean had a restful way about her. If he had wanted a respite while waiting for Isabella’s return, he could have found no better companion.

  He knew something of her story. Mrs. Mayfield had taken her in after the death of her father, a country parson with no fortune to dower her with. Her only brother, a wastrel, had been too poor to offer her a home. On learning this from Mrs. Mayfield herself, Gideon had been relieved to discover this much kindness in his future mother-in-law, especially in light of her other children, living with their brother in the country and yet to be established. But he had squirmed at the tactless way in which she had imparted the news. He had applauded her generous intention to take Mrs. Kean to Court, but lately he had found her treatment of her niece to be less than kind.

  The young lady’s dress was not remotely as lovely as Isabella’s, being unrelievedly dull and of a sober cut not likely to attract a suitor. Gideon supposed Mrs. Kean might have inherited a serious turn of mind from her father, a juring clergyman, which made her choose such a gown when she might have worn something more complimentary to her colouring. As it was, that mustard yellow was unbecoming, although the dress fitted her slim figure well. It would be a shame if Mrs. Kean, who was a good, deserving girl, had not a taste in clothes to help her attract admirers.

  But none of these thoughts did he allow to show, and soon he forgot them himself in their conversation.

  “You come from the north, as I recall. Do you never miss it?” he asked.

  “The wuthering of the wind, the treeless moors, and the blinding snow, my lord? You must think me mad.” She gave a shudder. “I have far too much love of a warm fire.”