Мэри Бэлоу - Someone to Romance

“Jessica?” Her mother was approaching, and Jessica turned her attention back to the scene immediately before her. Mama was bringing someone to introduce to her.

The man from the inn was forgotten. For standing before her, dazzling in a dull gold evening coat with sparkling gold waistcoat, lace foaming at his neck and over the backs of his hands in this age of far more sober evening attire and darker colors, was the man of Jessica’s long-dead dreams. He was handsome beyond belief—of slightly more than average height and perfectly proportioned build, with handsome facial features that included slumberous eyes of a decided blue and very white, even teeth, which were fully on display now in a wide smile. Even his thick hair was perfect, though red-haired men had never figured in the romantic dreams of her girlhood. They ought to have.

“Jessica,” her mother said. “Mr. Rochford has applied to me for an introduction to you. My daughter, Lady Jessica Archer, sir.”

“Charmed, Lady Jessica,” the gentleman said, making her an elegant bow while not removing his eyes from hers.

Oh, and so was she. Charmed, that was. Fortunately, she did not say so aloud. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Rochford,” she said, inclining her head to him. She did not curtsy to any man below the age of fifty or below the rank of earl.

Her court had fallen silent about her. She was hardly aware of it.

“Mr. Rochford is heir to the earldom of Lyndale,” her mother informed her. “Or soon will be, after his father succeeds to the title later this summer.”

Jessica raised her eyebrows in inquiry.

“My cousin, the present earl, has not taken up his title in the almost seven years since the demise of the late earl and his son,” Mr. Rochford explained. “He disappeared before that unfortunate event and has not been heard from since despite an exhaustive search. It has been very distressing to my father, who was dearly fond of him. Alas, the present earl is about to be declared officially dead. Both my father and I will be brokenhearted, but . . . Well, as the saying goes, life must go on.”

Ah. It was one consequence of being later than usual to London, Jessica supposed, that she had missed this tidbit of news—and really quite a sensational one. It was rather a romantic story too—for Mr. Rochford and his father, anyway. Not so much for the dead earl, she supposed. So this veritable Adonis standing before her and still smiling was about to be an earl’s heir, was he? And he was looking at her as though she were the fulfillment of all his dreams. She hoped her own interest in him was not so apparent. She fanned her cheeks slowly.

“I am sorry for your loss, sir,” she said.

“Thank you.” He bowed to her again. “Her Grace, the dowager duchess, your mother, has informed me that you have already granted the first two sets of dances to other gentlemen, who I trust are fully aware of their great good fortune. May I beg for the third?”

Dash it, Jessica thought. “That too is spoken for,” she told him. “And the set after that is a waltz, which I have promised to Lord Jennings.”

“Perhaps I will challenge him to pistols at dawn,” he said with another wide smile as his sleepy blue eyes continued to gaze into her own. “Better yet, I will beg for the fifth set.”

It would be the supper dance, she believed. Perfect. That would mean she would also sit with him at supper.

“I shall be happy to reserve it for you, sir,” she said with an inclination of the head, and this time she noticed that her court did not erupt with the usual grumbles but maintained what might have been a sullen silence.

By then the receiving line was breaking up as the last trickle of new arrivals moved into the ballroom, and Mr. Gladdley was stepping up beside Jessica and pointedly clearing his throat.

“The dancing is about to begin,” Jessica’s mother said, and Mr. Rochford, with a final bow, moved away. Mr. Gladdley crooked his arm for Jessica’s hand, and she placed it inside his elbow.

The gentleman from the inn was joining the end of one of the lines of dancers with a thin girl who looked not a day over sixteen. He was regarding his partner with what could only be called a proprietary smile. Then he looked up, caught Jessica’s eye, and gave her a curt nod.

Mr. Rochford was also leading out one of the white-clad new debutantes, who was blushing and looking nervous and very much in need of reassurance while he smiled and gazed at Jessica. But he dipped his head at last to say something that drew a grateful, worshipful glance from his partner.

Well, Jessica thought as the orchestra struck a chord and the dancing began, this Season was already showing considerable promise.

Four

Gabriel had come to the Parley ball alone, though he had been invited to join Bertie Vickers and a group of his friends for dinner at White’s Club before proceeding here with them later. But he had not wanted to be late arriving. Rather, he had wanted a chance to look about at his leisure. This was not just entertainment for him, after all. He needed a wife—or, rather, the Earl of Lyndale needed a countess—and what better place was there to look than the first grand ton ball of the Season? Lady Vickers had suggested a few young ladies she knew to be both eligible and available. She had promised to make sure Bertie introduced him to any that were at the ball, since she was unable to be there herself.

In addition to that main motive, though, Gabriel had hoped the ball would afford him a chance to catch a glimpse of Anthony Rochford, his second cousin once removed, if he remembered the relationship correctly.

Coming here alone had not been a comfortable thing to do, since he recognized only one or two men and no women. He was half hoping Lady Jessica Archer would be here. It would be interesting to see her again, to assess whether she was as perfect for his needs as she had seemed at their first brief meeting—and whether it might be possible to like her a little better than he had then. He was not even sure that she had come to London, however.

Numerous young girls had arrived even before he had, Gabriel saw—and girls seemed a more appropriate word than women . He must be getting old if he found them so alarmingly young. And all of them, almost without exception, were dressed in virginal white, as was Miss Parley, who looked all bright and flushed and pretty standing between her mother and father in the receiving line, greeting her guests. All of them looked pretty to him, though some were admittedly lovelier than others. All of them looked hopeful and eager, though a few tried to hide the fact behind unconvincing expressions of ennui. He felt an unexpected tenderness for them all and the dreams and aspirations they had brought to a London Season and what was undoubtedly their first grand ton ball. An almost avuncular tenderness.

He must be getting old.

A young debutante would certainly not do for his purpose, though all the young ladies Lady Vickers had suggested were in their first Season and almost certainly no older than seventeen or eighteen. He had been older than that when he went to America, for the love of God. A lifetime ago.

And then his eyes came to rest upon one particular woman. She was wearing a gown of vivid rose pink, startlingly noticeable even though she was half hidden within a cluster of men—or perhaps because of that. The men were all talking and laughing, but it was very clear that it was being done for the benefit of the woman and was designed to draw her looks and her smiles. She was very definitely the focus of their admiring attention. They were all vying to outdo one another. What popinjays, Gabriel thought. Did they have no pride? Then one of the men moved slightly to his right at the same moment as another moved slightly to his left, and Gabriel had a clearer line of vision to the woman herself.