Teaching His Ward

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The heat and the crush of people were quite overwhelming. Neither Jemima nor Kitty had anticipated anything like it. The overpowering mix of different scents and perfumes, the rustling fabrics, the crowds in every room. How there would ever be any dancing was a mystery.

"There seem to be far too many people here," Jemima said in a low voice to Kitty. "Do you think that this is normal for a ball?"

"I cannot say. Cousin Beatrice does not appear to be perturbed."

Miss Berystede would never show perturbation whether she felt it or not, Jemima thought. Once again she tried to emulate the old lady's grace and composure. Jemima fanned herself a little and tried to look serene. Only someone stepped on someone else’s gown, crashing into Kitty who then fell into Jemima, who nearly toppled over.

There was a volley of apologies and inquiries after their wellbeing. Then by some miracle Miss Berystede managed to get them escorted to a quieter area of the room, where there were actually chairs to sit upon.

This gave them a better chance to observe the people around them. Looking at the other guests and their costume, Jemima considered that she and Kitty looked very well. Kitty was wearing a white gown with tiny pink rosebuds, a colour that always enhanced her dark hair. The French maid hired especially for the Season had worked Kitty's hair into a fashionable and becoming style, with ringlets falling around her ears.

Jemima wore shimmering ivory sarsnet trimmed with French lace. Miss Berystede fortunately had no idea which gown belonged to Jemima and which to Kitty, so she had made no remark. The French girl, in consideration of Jemima's supposedly betrothed status, had styled her locks in a manner worn by more sophisticated women. Smaller tendrils of curls framed her face, with her hair gathered into an elegant chignon in the back. "I most definitely look like your senior and superior," Jemima had remarked to Kitty, as they beheld themselves in the glass.

"Do not forget that I am a year older than you, for all your dashing Lord Dalrymple," Kitty told her.

"It is but a few months until I am eighteen, and then I shall once again be your equal," Jemima said.

Kitty tilted her chin. "For one month only. After which I shall be nineteen and again your superior…"

"…and a decrepit old maid," Jemima finished for her.

Nothing could look less decrepit than the reflection of the two young women before them. Aunt Harlington had frequently impressed upon Jemima that vanity was a sin and a failure of character. Jemima recalled the advice given to young women in one of the books her aunt had instructed her to read.

"One of the chief beauties in a female character is that modest reserve, that retiring delicacy, which avoids the public eye."

Jemima tilted her head on one side. Then she lowered her eyes and attempted to look demure, half concealing her face with her fan and fluttering it in manner she considered to be delicate.

The only effect of this was to cause Kitty to burst into laughter. "If you make such a face as that I will hardly be able to maintain my composure," Kitty exclaimed.

"You do not think it suggests a retiring delicacy?" Jemima asked.

"Certainly I do not!"

Jemima gave up and folded her fan. Regardless of looking retiring, surely even her aunt would have to own that she and Kitty looked well?

Thinking about this reminded Jemima of what her aunt's reaction would actually be if she discovered her runaway niece in London, about to attend a ball under a false name and in borrowed finery. She shuddered.

"Are you well?" Kitty asked.

"A brief vision of Aunt Harlington, nothing more," Jemima replied.

She had managed to banish all further thought of her aunt as they travelled in Miss Berystede's carriage to Lord and Lady Doncaster's house. Once inside there were far too many distractions and marvels than to worry about furious relatives miles away in the country. Jemima was fascinated by the gowns, the dashing dress of the men, the jewellery and ornaments, and simply the way people fanned themselves and laughed and sparred in conversation.

Miss Berystede's poor eyesight meant that she did not recognise anyone in the crowd. But it seemed that despite her rural seclusion, many people were acquainted with her. They flocked to converse with her and be introduced to "The Lady Julia Carlingford and Miss Elstone". Jemima enjoyed some glee at her superior rank, a fiction though it was.

"There seem to be many more young women here than young men," she remarked to Kitty. "And many more mammas than papas."

Young men, of course, enjoyed far more social freedom to do as they pleased. They might well prefer to frequent private clubs and dining establishments, entertaining women from the demi-monde. Jemima and Kitty knew only a very little of this world, though they were both eager to learn all the scandal and intrigue they could.

Jemima was seated by herself when the dancing started, with Kitty having accompanied Miss Berystede to the ladies' retiring room. As a supposedly engaged woman, Jemima did not warrant the same close chaperonage as Kitty did. No one would know she was engaged of course, as she wore no ring. But it had been mentioned to a couple of people that she was "arranging her trousseau", at which Jemima had seen a flicker of relief in some women's eyes. One more young chit off the market meant less competition for their own daughters.

Marcus, against all his better judgement, had allowed George to drag him to this damned circus at the Doncasters'. If truth be told, he had partly attended because he knew Lady Caroline DeClere would not be there. Just as the widow had more clearly indicated she welcomed his attentions, Marcus had found himself instinctively withdrawing. He could not fully explain why. Though perhaps George's unspoken reservations over the lady were influencing him. He could tell George was far from enamoured by her.

Going to the Doncaster ball meant being able to decline an invitation to a dinner where Lady Caroline was likely to be present, as she had said as much to him the last time they met.

The ball was every bit as excruciating as Marcus had feared. He stood there, clad in a tailored black dress coat, close-fitting pantaloons and a starched cravat, wishing he were in a comfortable pair of riding buckskins and on his way to Madrid. Instead, he was forced to suffer endless approaches by various tiresome people, eager to greet the reclusive Earl of Southwell. He tried not to be brusque in his manner but he grew less adept at concealing his irritation with each new conversation.

When the dancing started he decided he must distance himself, and left the ballroom for the adjoining room. As he entered he noticed a young woman sitting by herself at the side of the room, clad in a pale gown. It made a striking contrast with the soft rosewood hue of her hair. A chit seated alone was in itself slightly remarkable, but all the more remarkable was his own reaction. In some momentary fit of insanity, Marcus found himself approaching her.

"You do not dance, Madam?"

Two silver-grey eyes met his, and Marcus felt an unexpected jolt.

"As you can see, Sir, I do not." Her voice was low and clear.

What madness had just overtaken him he could not say, but Marcus suddenly found himself asking her to dance. "Might I remedy that state of affairs?"

The young woman looked momentarily startled - really, she was little more than a girl, what on earth was he thinking? - and something flickered over her face.

"I would be very happy to accept."

She was beautiful, but so were many women here. It was more than that. She had an arresting quality, Marcus considered, as he led her onto the dance floor. She was slender, but the neck of her gown revealed the subtle swell of womanly curves below.

As Marcus took her hand, he was horrified to realise his body was experiencing an abrupt and very inappropriate reaction to her.

He could only attribute it to a long period of abstinence. It was some considerable time since he had even danced with a woman. Greatly regretting his impulsiveness and trying to regain his self-control, he led the girl through the opening dance steps.

Gritting his teeth, he tried to distract himself by conversing with her. "We have not, of course, been formally introduced to one another. Might I have the pleasure of knowing your name?"

The girl was silent for a moment, and then spoke. "You may know me as the Lady Incognita," she told him. There was a strange mix of defiance and merriment in her eyes.

Marcus wondered what game she was playing. "Then I shall be Lord Sine Nomine," he replied.

"'The Lord without a name.' That seems most suitable," the girl replied. She was graceful in her dancing and Marcus found himself increasingly bewitched by her. It was galling to find himself so affected by such a young chit. She was nothing like the older, more worldly women he usually dallied with. How old was she? Something about her appearance or her dress seemed to set her apart from many of the other debutantes. But she could not be more than twenty, surely?

"Are you newly arrived in town?" he asked.

"Only yesterday." A Sphinx-like smile played about her lips. Marcus was seized with a sudden desire to kiss them, and stepped back from her.

She was confused. "My lord?"

Hurriedly Marcus composed himself, muttering an apology. "A misstep. It is some while since I last danced."

His partner raised her eyebrows. "It is not a pastime you enjoy?"

"No - yes - I have been out of the country in recent times." He was stammering like a schoolboy, not an experienced man well into his thirties. He really must engage more in society, if absenting himself resulted in this kind of reaction.

Jemima could barely breathe with nerves and it was all she could do to keep up her act of being a worldly, engaged woman.

When the dark-haired man, so tall and elegantly dressed, had approached her, she had first feared some reproach. That her disguise had been penetrated, and she faced ignominy.

She had not been entirely isolated from men during her years at Aunt Harlington's house. Their art master was elderly, but there had been the young curate whom she and Kitty had giggled over. Lord Elstone occasionally had guests, though they were usually closer to his age. There was a second cousin of Kitty's that had stayed briefly at Elstone Court. But he had been a very dull and pompous young man, with a pallid complexion and a weak chin.

And of course there was the odious Sir Hubert. Jemima shuddered just thinking about him. In the last few years she had frequently caught him leering at her in church, lisping with a horridly unctuous tone when he greeted her and Aunt Harlington afterwards.

Nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared Jemima for such a man as stood before her now. Nor her reaction to him that seemed to overtake her whole body.

He was tall and broad shouldered, with exquisitely cut clothes moulded to his athletic form. His hair was jet black with no streak of silver, though Jemima could not discern the colour of his eyes in the candlelight. His features were impossibly handsome, chiselled as though by a Greek sculptor.

Why on earth had he singled her out?

"You do not dance, Madam?" he had said, and something within her shivered at his deep and commanding tone.

Jemima was sure she should have made an excuse not to dance with him. It was doubtless highly improper for an engaged woman to do so. But she was uncertain how to turn him down politely, nor did she want to turn him down.

Standing up before him, she caught the distinctly masculine aroma of bay and sandalwood, and as she stood closer and they began to dance, the warm muskiness of male skin.

What on earth had possessed her to play such a foolish game with him, in giving her name as Lady Incognita? Somehow "Lady Julia Carlingford" had frozen on her lips. She had also felt resentment towards the absent Lord Dalrymple, who now represented an obstacle to enjoyment. Despite his non-existence, Jemima felt irrationally guilty for dispensing with him.

The man before her was an excellent dancer. Powerful and strong, with a manly grace. Jemima hoped he would not guess that this was the first time she had ever danced with someone other than Kitty. Jemima herself had not been allowed a dancing instructor as Kitty had been, so Kitty had later taught her friend the various steps.

Jemima looked up at her partner. Meeting his eyes, she felt her stomach dissolve. He was so incredibly attractive. Would most men have this effect on her, or was it because he was the first man who had ever asked her to dance? From what she had observed of the other male guests at the ball, no one came close to him in looks or bearing.

He is very much older than you, she reminded herself. He is likely doing this as a kindness, taking pity on a solitary girl without a dancing partner.

So she tried to enjoy herself, and pretend that she was a woman of the world. Not some young girl fresh from the schoolroom who found herself trembling in the arms of the first male who had ever invited her to dance.

"You spend much time abroad, then?" she asked him.

"Indeed. My business frequently takes me overseas."

Jemima was curious to know what business he referred to, for he did not look like the kind of man who would be engaged in any kind of trade. He was an actual lord, surely? Or at least the son of a nobleman. But she feared it would not be an appropriate question to ask.

"I have often longed to travel," she said instead.

There was faint surprise in his expression at this. "The discomforts of a voyage do not deter you?"

"I have made a sea voyage once before, and did not suffer any discomfort," Jemima told him. For some reason she decided it best not to mention Ireland. The more mysterious she remained, the better. It struck her that if she exposed herself in some way or ruined her reputation as Lady Julia Carlingford, it would likely hurt Kitty and Miss Berystede. She must be very careful.

The dance ended, and the dark-haired man bowed to her, with Jemima returning the customary curtsey. He nodded and thanked her, and immediately took his leave. Jemima was surprised and worried that she had caused some offence, since he had appeared in such a hurry to go. Was it not the normal thing for them to converse a while?

She felt more than a pang of disappointment at his sudden departure. Still, if she had overstepped the bounds of convention by dancing with a stranger to whom she had not been properly introduced, perhaps it was all the wiser that their exchange were not extended.

And so he had gone, as mysteriously as he had arrived.