Tangled Reins

Chapter Seven

After an uneventful drive, the Merion carriage joined the long queue of coaches lining up to disgorge their fair burdens on the torch-lit steps of Richmond House. There had been little conversation on the journey, and Ferdie had had time to ponder what lay between the Darent sisters and his friends.

He recalled the look in Dorothea’s eye that afternoon when he had hurried to catch up with them as they left the Park. He had been unable to interpret it at the time, imagining that the four of them had been together the whole time. But now, from what Marc and Tony themselves had said, it was clear that had not been the case. Ferdie’s mind boggled when he tried to imagine what exactly had happened between Dorothea and Marc. And this while the Misses Darent were, after a fashion, in his care! If such a thing ever got out, his carefully nurtured reputation as a trustworthy ladies’ companion would be ruined!

The carriage drew up and he helped his ladies to alight. Soon they were following the glittering line of arrivals up the grand staircase. At the top, they were greeted by the Duchess, and moved on into the ballroom as their names were proclaimed in stentorian accents by two massive footmen flanking the door.

Dorothea had only taken a few steps when she found Hazelmere at her elbow. Smiling up at him, she saw that his eyes were not laughing, but glinting at her in a way that made her heart stand still. All the other symptoms she now associated with his presence-breathlessness, confusion and a certain anticipation-immediately came to the fore. Then he smiled and the intense look dissolved into his usual warmly amused expression, dispelling her unease. His lips lightly brushed her gloved fingertips before he drew her hand through his arm.

‘Come with me, Miss Darent; there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

‘Oh? Who, pray tell?’

‘Me.’

She chuckled. She was drawn out of the mainstream of the arriving guests, a tactic that confused the small army of gentlemen waiting patiently to greet her further along the ballroom. Hazelmere led her towards a corner, into the camouflage of earlier arrivals. He moved automatically through the crowd, not seeing them, not hearing them. His mind was awhirl with a heady sensation he had never experienced before. Whatever it was, it was exciting and uncomfortable at the same time, and its cause was the unutterably lovely creature walking so calmly beside him. The sight of her, encased in ivory, had taken his breath away. Then she had smiled at him with such open affection that he had had to fight an impulse to kiss her in the middle of the Duchess of Richmond’s ballroom.

The temptation to continue their ambling stroll into the adjoining rooms was strong. He knew Richmond House fairly well. He was sure he could find a deserted ante-room where Miss Darent and he could analyse his strange response to her presence in more depth. He sighed inwardly. Unfortunately such intimate discussions were not listed among the acceptable ways of wooing young ladies during the Season.

Reluctantly pausing, he looked down at her again, drinking in the flawless symmetry of her face, drowning in her emerald eyes. He saw them widen, first in amused enquiry and then, as he remained silent, in increasing bewilderment. ‘I’ll have you know, Miss Darent, that I’m rapidly running out of ideas of how to whisk you away before your devoted admirers surround you.’

Smiling in response, Dorothea hoped that he couldn’t hear the thudding of her heart. She was no longer sure of her ability to keep him from guessing her feelings-as he stood before her, magnificent as ever, the spell he cast was too potent. He had developed a certain way of looking at her, which made her feel deliciously warm and tingly and led her unruly thoughts into fields they had no business straying into. Well-brought-up young ladies weren’t supposed to know of such things, let alone weave fantasies about them. Thinking that she could quite happily bask in that hazel gaze for the rest of forever, she forced herself to try for their usual conversational mode. ‘Well, you seem to have succeeded to admiration this evening. I feel utterly deserted!’

‘Do you, indeed?’ he murmured, adding in a provocative undertone, ‘Would that you were, my dear.’

In spite of her intentions, she was finding it harder and harder to meet his eyes with her customary cool unconcern.

Hazelmere finally looked down to examine her dance card. ‘I don’t suppose I should tell you that Lord Markham is presently making a cake of himself, searching through the place for you? No! Don’t look around or he might see you. And the only reason Alvanley, Peterborough and Walsingham ain’t doing the same is that they’re watching Robert do it for them. Miss Darent, I notice there’s a waltz immediately preceding supper, which is a very sensible innovation. I must remember to compliment the Duchess on her good sense. Will you do me the honour, my dear Miss Darent, of waltzing with me and then allowing me to take you into supper?’

Dorothea had managed to gain a firmer hold on her composure during this speech and was able to serenely reply, ‘That will be delightful, Lord Hazelmere.’

One black brow rose. ‘Will it?’

But she refused to be drawn with such an unanswerable question and simply smiled sweetly back. Hazelmere laughed and raised one finger to her cheek. ‘Promise me you’ll never put a rein on your tongue, my dear. Life would become so dull if you did.’

The caress and the even more provocative tones brought a familiar flash to her large green eyes.

‘Ah! Miss Darent! Lord Hazelmere. Your servant, sir.’ Sir Barnaby Ruscombe materialised at Hazelmere’s elbow. Hazelmere suavely inclined his head, and Dorothea drummed up her best social smile for London’s most notorious rattle. Sir Barnaby, beaming as if delighted by these mild acknowledgements, waved his hand towards the figure on his arm, a sharp-featured woman of indeterminate years, dressed entirely in a quite hideous shade of puce, clashing outrageously with her improbable auburn locks. ‘Permit me to introduce you. Miss Darent, Lord Hazelmere. Mrs Dimchurch.’

The exchange of curtsies and bows was purely perfunctory. ‘But I’m sure Miss Darent remembers me from the assemblies at Newbury,’ gushed Mrs Dimchurch. Hazelmere felt Dorothea stiffen. ‘So sad about your dear mama! Lady Cynthia and I always enjoyed a comfortable cose while we watched over our daughters.’ Her sharp eyes were fixed on the Marquis. ‘I must say, I was surprised to hear Lady Cynthia had made your acquaintance, my lord. She never mentioned it. Strange, don’t you think?’

As an attempt to throw Hazelmere, it was so crude that Dorothea only just managed to retain her composure.

His lordship, used to stiffer competition, made short work of it. Regarding the offending Mrs Dimchurch with a coldly gentle smile, he softly said, ‘I very much doubt, my dear ma’am, that Lady Darent was the type of lady who would presume, on the basis of a single chance introduction, to claim acquaintance with anyone. Don’t you agree?’

Mrs Dimchurch turned brick-red, rendering her toilette even more hideous.

Without waiting for a reply, Hazelmere nodded to Sir Barnaby and, bestowing a devilish smile on the unfortunate Mrs Dimchurch, drew Dorothea’s hand once more through his arm and strolled back towards the milling crowds in the centre of the large room.

Once out of earshot of the importunate couple, Hazelmere glanced down. ‘My dear Miss Darent, how many such mushrooms have you had to endure?’ He sounded distinctly guilty.

She chuckled, then answered airily, ‘Oh, hardly any since the first week.’ She looked up, confidently expecting him to laugh with her and was surprised to see the hazel eyes reflecting real concern. Before she could do more than register the fact they were spotted by her prospective partners.

The rooms were filled to overflowing and more people were arriving. Finding any lady in the crush was extremely difficult. Having totally lost Miss Darent, one of the crowd looking for her had asked if anyone had seen Hazelmere, as, knowing his lordship, Miss Darent was probably with him. This had led to a search for the Marquis who, because of his height, was a great deal easier to spot than Dorothea. With various comments, mostly in an uncomplimentary vein, being thrown at his head, Hazelmere good-humouredly surrendered Dorothea to her swains and was swallowed up in the crowds.

Dorothea was amazed that anyone could find anyone else in the throng of people filling the ballroom and spreading into the adjoining salons. She had no idea where her grandmother or Cecily were, but with so many acquaintances among the ton she was not in the least put out. Somehow her partners seemed to find her for their respective dances, when the ballroom would miraculously clear as the music began. As each dance finished, the floor would fill again with a shifting sea of gorgeously clad ladies, the gentlemen in their more sober clothes providing stark contrast. The evening passed in a whirl of conversation and dancing, and she had no time to ponder the subtle change she had detected in the Marquis.

The only cloud on her horizon was the persistent Mr Buchanan. He seemed to dog her erratic footsteps, continually appearing as if by some malignant magic wherever she chose to pause. Finally she appealed to Ferdie for advice. ‘How on earth can I get rid of him?’ she wailed as they trailed and dipped through a cotillion.

Although highly sympathetic, having already endured too much of Mr Buchanan’s company and lacking Hazelmere’s acid capacity to silence at will, Ferdie could find no magic formula to rid his protégée of this unexpected encumbrance. ‘Hate to say it, but he’s the sort who never takes the hint. You’ll just have to be patient until he slopes off.’ Then he was seized with inspiration. ‘Why not ask Hazelmere to have a word with him?’

‘Lord Hazelmere would probably laugh himself into stitches at the idea of Mr Buchanan pursuing me! He’d be more likely to encourage him!’ returned Dorothea. They were separated by the movement of the dance, so she failed to see the effect her answer had on Ferdie. Retrieving his dropped jaw, he shook his head. Personally, he could not imagine Hazelmere encouraging anyone to pursue Dorothea, much less the importunate Mr Buchanan, who, unless he missed his guess, was a fortune-hunter of the most inept variety. Clearly a word in his cousin’s ear would not go amiss.

No longer feeling the need to dance with other young ladies as a cover for his pursuit of Dorothea, Hazelmere spent much of the evening talking to friends, acquaintances and a not inconsiderable number of his relatives. He was not pleased when, turning in response to a tap on his arm, he looked down into the severe countenance of his eldest sister, Lady Maria Setford. Knowing that she would have heard of his interest in Dorothea, he persistently misunderstood every quizzing remark she made on that subject. Exasperated, she finally recommended he look out for his other older sister, Lady Susan Wilmot, who, she informed him, was also somewhere in the rooms and desirous of speech with him.

Her brother merely looked at her with an expression that very luckily she was incapable of interpreting, before excusing himself on the score of having seen their mother, with whom he required a few words.

He did, in fact, pass by Lady Hazelmere, deep in conversation with Sally Jersey, and paused to whisper, ‘Mama, I know you’ve always sworn you were faithful to my father, but how on earth do you account for Maria and Susan?’

Lady Jersey, overhearing, burst into her twittering laugh. Lady Hazelmere made a face at him before asking, ‘You don’t mean they’ve started sermonising already?’

‘I’m sure they would like to, only they haven’t decided whether it’s worthwhile yet,’ returned her undutiful son, winking at her as he moved on.

Like Ferdie, Hazelmere had spent the journey to Richmond House sunk in thought. A despondent mood had overtaken him earlier in the day, when he had had to deny himself the pleasure of kissing Dorothea in the glade in the Park and had realised that would be his lot for some time to come. Since he was naturally autocratic and, as Dorothea had surmised, used to getting his own way in most things, the need to keep his passions on a very tight rein did not appeal in the least. He had already decided that he could not ask her to marry him until much later in the Season. This was not because he thought he needed more time to win her, nor that he feared to put his luck to the test. Rather it was because he, unlike Dorothea, was well versed in the ways of the ton. He could not be entirely sure of her answer, so he had to consider the possibility that she would refuse him. As their courtship had been carried out in full view of all the gossips and scandalmongers, such an outcome at the height of the Season would place them both in an intolerable situation. In addition, Lady Merion, Fanshawe and Cecily, and Ferdie too would be made to feel highly uncomfortable.

His mood had lightened when he learned that Fanshawe was in a similar position. A much more easygoing individual than himself, Tony would not find the enforced restrictions quite as hard to bear. Cecily, too, was as yet too young to do other than enjoy every moment as it came. Dorothea was another matter. While she never in any way encouraged him, she nevertheless accepted with complete self-assurance every attention he bestowed upon her. He shrewdly guessed that, being older, more mature and definitely more independent than the general run of débutantes, she was more ready and more able to savour the delights of sophisticated lovemaking, to which he was only too willing to introduce her. Her passionate nature, which he wryly suspected she did not yet realise she possessed, was not going to help matters. It was at this point in his mental ramblings that his sense of humour had come to his rescue. How very ironic it all was!

He had quit their carriage in a much lighter mood than he had entered it, and the last shreds of despondency had been wafted away when he had seen Dorothea enter the ballroom.

Moving through the salons, he saw Lady Merion ensconced in a corner, chatting amiably with Lady Bressington. He stopped to audaciously compliment them both on their dashing new toilettes and stayed to exchange the usual pleasantries.

Suddenly becoming aware they had been approached by some others, he turned to view the newcomers, surprising a look of annoyance on Lady Merion’s face as he did so. The cause of this was immediately clear: the couple who approached were none other than Herbert and Marjorie, Lord and Lady Darent.

Hazelmere had been introduced to Herbert Darent years ago when that sober young man had first come on the town. Two years younger than the Marquis, Herbert was also a full head shorter and, in his ill-fitting coat, cut a poor figure in comparison.

After two minutes’ conversation Hazelmere fully appreciated Lady Merion’s decision to take the Darent girls under her wing. The idea that two such pearls could have made their début under the auspices of the present Lord and Lady Darent was too awful to contemplate. What a mess they would have made of it. To his experienced eye, Marjorie Darent lacked any degree of style or charm, and her austere observations on modern social customs, delivered for the benefit of the company without any invitation whatever, simply appalled him.

Lady Merion was so thunderstruck that she was literally speechless. When Herbert tried to engage Hazelmere in a discussion of rural commodities she was even more incensed. However, as she listened to Herbert, who had little real idea of what he was discussing, lecturing Hazelmere, who, as one of the major landowners in the country, had a more than academic interest in such matters, her sense of humour got the better of her. She rapidly hid her face behind her fan.

Looking up, her eyes met Hazelmere’s, full of heartfelt sympathy as he adroitly extricated both himself and Lady Bressington, on the pretext of taking her ladyship to find her errant daughter.

As she moved off on his arm Augusta Bressington heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you, Marc. If you hadn’t rescued me I would have been stuck. Poor Hermione! What a dreadful couple!’

‘Definitely not one of the hits of the Season,’ he agreed.

‘And to think Herbert comes from the same stable as those two lovely girls,’ she continued, quite forgetting his interest. As this came to mind, she blushed, but, glancing up at him, found he was laughing.

‘Oh, no! I feel sure Herbert’s mother must have played his father false, don’t you?’

Lady Bressington gasped and then burst out laughing too. Drawing her hand from his arm, she bade him take himself off, adding that she now saw why all the girls fell to mooning over him.

Hearing the strains of the Roger de Clovely drifting from the ballroom and knowing it to be the dance before the supper waltz, Hazelmere accepted his dismissal with easy grace and moved back to the ballroom to find Dorothea. He had little difficulty in picking her out, whirling down the dance with Peterborough. Pausing for a moment to catch the tune and work out where they were likely to finish, he stationed himself near the end of the ballroom. As the dance concluded, Peterborough whirled Dorothea to a halt a few paces away. He strolled towards them. ‘How obliging of you, Gerry, to bring Miss Darent to me.’

Peterborough whirled around, an entirely unacceptable oath on his lips. ‘Hazelmere!’ he groaned. ‘I might have known!’ As the Marquis possessed himself of Dorothea’s hand he continued, ‘I suppose you have the supper waltz?’

‘Precisely,’ said Hazelmere, his amused glance clearly baiting his friend.

Lord Peterborough turned to Dorothea and in a serious tone, belied by the expression on his face, said, ‘I shouldn’t have anything to do with Hazelmere if I were you, Miss Darent. Don’t know if anyone’s told you, but he’s far too dangerous for young ladies to deal with. Much better to let me take you away.’

Dorothea laughed at this graceless speech. But Hazelmere’s voice again drew Peterborough’s attention. ‘Oh, Miss Darent knows just how dangerous I am, Gerry.’ At this outrageous statement Dorothea’s eyes blazed. Looking up, she found the hazel eyes quizzing her as he continued smoothly, ‘But she has agreed to overlook my dangerous tendencies. Haven’t you, Miss Darent?’

Aware that to answer this provocative question in any way at all would be highly improper, Dorothea threw him a fulminating glance.

Smiling, he turned back to Peterborough and said, quite simply, ‘Goodbye, Gerry.’

‘Oh, I’m off, never fear. Take care, Miss Darent!’ he added insouciantly as, sketching a bow to her, he disappeared into the crowd.

Turning to Dorothea, Hazelmere saw she had opened her fan. ‘You’re flushed, Miss Darent. Now I wonder if that’s due to these overheated rooms, the Roger de Clovely, Peterborough’s remarks or mine?’

Smiling up at him, she calmly answered, ‘Why, a combination of all four, I should think.’

‘Then, instead of waiting for the next dance, why don’t we repair to the terrace, where I see quite a few others have already gone to enjoy the cool of the evening?’

Looking in the direction he indicated, Dorothea saw that the long windows at the end of the ballroom giving out on to the terrace had been thrown open. A number of couples were strolling in the moonlight. She had definite misgivings of the wisdom of venturing into such a fairy-tale scene at Hazelmere’s side, but she was certainly feeling overly warm and the cool night air beckoned invitingly.

Hazelmere, correctly guessing her thoughts, made her decision for her by taking her arm. Together they strolled through the windows. Dorothea exclaimed at the sight of the formal gardens touched with moonlight. A few adventuresome couples had descended to the parterre below, where they appeared as pixie-like characters in the soft light. Without breaking the spell, Hazelmere strolled by her side to the far end of the terrace. He had a very good memory. There was an orangery built along the side of the house below the ballroom which could only be reached from the terrace. Knowing the Duchess of Richmond was a considerate hostess, he felt the orangery would be open. Coming to the end of the terrace and turning, he found that his confidence in the Duchess had not been misplaced.

‘There’s an orangery down these steps, which, if memory serves, gives on to the fountain court. Shall we investigate?’

The question was merely a formality. Dorothea was literally enthralled by the silvery beauty about her and, without thought, went down the steps by his side.

Inside the orangery, deserted save for themselves, they found the doors giving on to the fountain court thrown wide. Hearing the music of the fountains, Dorothea drew her hand from his arm and, looking very like a fairy queen, drifted to the open door to look out on the magical scene. The three fountains in the court were playing and the moonlight glistened and sparkled on each drop of water thrown up in the still night air to fall back with a silvery tinkle into the large marble bowls. She stood in the doorway, rapt in the beauty of the scene.

Silently Hazelmere shut the doors from the terrace and, coming up behind her, gently drew her back to lean against him. Feeling his hands about her waist, she allowed her head to rest against his shoulder. For some moments they were as still as the statues in the fountains. Then, prompted by her own particular devil, Dorothea turned her head to smile up at him. There was, after all, one certain way to precipitate matters.

His response was all she could have wished. Turning her slightly, Hazelmere swiftly bent his head to drop the gentlest of delicate kisses on her lips. As he raised his head her eyes opened wide. For one long moment they remained perfectly still, the hazel and green gazes fusing in the moonlight. Then, slowly, he turned her fully and deliberately drew her into his arms. She lifted her face and his lips found hers in a kiss that possessed her senses with gentle certainty. With infinite care he started her sensual education, his caresses deepening by imperceptible degrees so that her senses were never overwhelmed, but taught, step by steady step, to savour the exquisite delight he created. His control was absolute and Dorothea, enfolded in his care, for the first time in her life, willingly let go of the reins.

She lost all track of time, gently led down paths where joy, as exquisite as dew on a buttercup, lay waiting to greet her. The sensual landscape conjured forth by his touch was a new frontier in which each discovery brought its own thrill. When, finally, he drew her back to reality she was dazed and breathless and exquisitely happy.

Then they were waltzing in the moonlit orangery to the music wafting through the open windows of the ballroom above. In no mood to protest, she gave herself up to the enjoyment of the moment. Hazelmere, looking down at her lovely face, serene and untroubled in the starlight, did likewise.

As the last chord sounded and they glided to a halt he firmly drew her arm through his and made for the door and the steps back to the terrace.

‘Do we have to leave?’ she asked, hanging back. ‘It’s so very lovely here.’

‘Yes,’ he replied uncompromisingly. If they stayed in this isolated spot a moment longer he knew very well what would happen. Which would all be very pleasant, except he had no idea what would happen next. After that little interlude he was no longer sure how far he could trust himself with her, and he had a shrewd suspicion that, innocent though she was, she was no more enamoured of the rules restricting their conduct than he was. It was bad enough that he had to exercise restraint for the both of them, as he was magnanimously doing at present, but if she started pulling in the opposite direction the temptation to capitulate might become too great. He groaned inwardly and closed his eyes to rid his mind of the intoxicating possibilities the thought conjured up. Opening them again, he tightened his grip on her arm and inexorably drew her back up the steps to the terrace. ‘If we are missing at supper, your grandmama will have all her worst fears concerning me confirmed and will in all probability forbid me to speak to you!’

As she imagined the likelihood of his paying any attention to Lady Merion’s strictures, a small, happy smile curved Dorothea’s lips, and she allowed him to lead her back into the ballroom.

Almost immediately they came face to face with Edward Buchanan. ‘Miss Darent, you’re flushed! Perhaps I might take you for a walk in the gardens? I’m sure Lord Hazelmere will excuse you.’ The accusatory look he cast Hazelmere nearly did for Dorothea.

Hazelmere, who knew very well the cause of the delicate flush still apparent on her alabaster skin, smiled in a devilish way that brought his reputation forcibly to Edward Buchanan’s mind, and said, ‘On the contrary! Lord Hazelmere is about to escort Miss Darent to supper. If you will excuse us?’

Receiving a curt nod, Edward Buchanan found his quarry had somehow side-stepped him and escaped. The first uneasy glimmer that Miss Darent might fall prey to the wicked blandishments of tonnish society awoke in his unimaginative mind.

Out of earshot, Dorothea asked, ‘Am I really flushed?’ She felt delightful; not uncomfortable at all.

She could not interpret the slow grin that spread across the Marquis’s face. ‘Delightfully so,’ was all the answer she got.

After much stopping to talk to acquaintances on the way, they finally gained the supper-room. Fanshawe and Cecily had saved them seats at a corner table well provided with an array of delicacies. As Hazelmere helped Dorothea to her chair Fanshawe, after one glance at her, caught his friend’s eye, his look clearly stating that he had every idea of what they had been up to. Hazelmere grinned back.

Relieved to see him no longer in the hips, Fanshawe turned back to assure an excited and insistent Cecily that he would take her to see the fountain court.

When they rose from the table Fanshawe said to Hazelmere, ‘Don’t forget your promise to your mother! I’ve kept my side of it. I couldn’t bear it if she was to quiz us all the way back to Cavendish Square.’

‘Ye gods! I’d forgotten.’ Hazelmere turned his most charming smile on Dorothea. ‘Miss Darent, my mother is here somewhere in this mêlée and has made me promise to introduce you. Will you allow me to take you to her?’

She raised her fine brows, but consented to be led on a search for the Marchioness. As she moved through the crowd on Hazelmere’s arm she could not resist saying, ‘I’m tempted to ask why Lord Fanshawe is so anxious you keep your promise.’

Laughing down at her, he replied, ‘I wouldn’t if I were you. The answer would do nothing for your composure.’ The caress in his eyes made her feel decidedly odd.

He finally located his mother, seated on a chaise in a corner of one of the salons, busily chatting to an acquaintance. On seeing them approach, this lady tactfully withdrew and Hazelmere made the promised introduction.

Lady Hazelmere had been prepared by her friends’ letters to find Dorothea Darent a particularly pretty girl. The stunning goddess her son introduced was considerably more attractive than she had anticipated. She smiled delightedly at this vision in ivory satin.

Motioning Dorothea to sit beside her, the Dowager made very large eyes at her son, signifying how impressed she was by his taste. Hazelmere, correctly interpreting the glance, returned it with a smile clearly saying, ‘Well, what did you expect?’ Receiving in reply an unmistakable sign that she wished to be left alone with Miss Darent, he had little choice but to obey. Making his adieus to Dorothea, he bethought himself of another matter and departed to find Lady Merion.

Relieved of his distracting presence, Lady Hazelmere found that she was being regarded by an enormous pair of green eyes. With an ease born of long experience, she instituted a conversation on totally unexceptionable matters, carefully steering clear of any mention of her son. She quickly discovered that the child before her had poise and confidence, combined with a refreshing frankness. It was not difficult to understand her son’s desire for the lovely Miss Darent. That he meant marriage she had no doubt, else he would never have consented to introduce her. As their conversation progressed she discovered that humour and a ready wit could be added to Miss Darent’s charms and was well satisfied with his choice.

By the time Lord Alvanley came to claim Dorothea for the last dance of the evening Lady Hazelmere was wondering how much longer her son would wait. As Dorothea moved away on Alvanley’s arm she wondered whether his conquest of the elegant young woman would be as smooth as he would certainly expect. In a flash of very unmaternal feeling she hoped that, for Dorothea’s sake, it would not be quite that easy. Hazelmere was far too used to getting his own way-a set-down would make him much more human.