Кейси Майклс - The Secrets of the Heart

“I had been dressed and ready beforetimes, eager to mount these heavenly stairs to your presence,” he lamented sadly, “but then dearest Grumble here observantly pointed out that the lace on my handkerchief—” he brandished an oversized, ornate lace handkerchief as proof “—did not in the slightest complement that of the rest of my ensemble. Imagine my dismay! There was nothing else for it but that I strip to the buff and begin again.” He sighed eloquently, looking to Lord Undercliff as if for understanding.

He didn’t receive any. “Could have just changed handkerchiefs, St. Clair,” his lordship countered, he believed, reasonably. “Or left off altogether trailing one around with you everywhere like some paper-skulled, die-away miss with a perpetual fit of the vapors.”

St. Clair’s broad shoulders shook slightly as he gave a small gulp of laughter that soon grew to an appreciative if somewhat high-pitched giggle. “Sans doute. Ah, Undercliff, what I would not give to find life so simple. Grumble,” he said, turning to George Trumble, one of his trio of constant companions, “how naughty of you not to point out that alternative to me. No, don’t say anything,” he continued, holding up a hand to silence his friend, who hadn’t appeared willing or able to answer. “I remember now. My affections lay more deeply with the handkerchief than the remainder of my costume. Forgive me, Grumble. Ah, well, no hour spent in dressing is ever wasted.”

“Only a single hour—for evening clothes?” Lord Undercliff spluttered, giving the baron’s rig-out another look, this time appreciating the cut of the coat, which was not quite that of the past century but more modern, with less buckram padding, flattering St. Clair’s slim frame that boasted surprisingly wide shoulders and a trim waist. And the man’s long, straight legs were nearly obscene in their beauty, the thighs muscular, the calves obviously not aided by the careful stuffing of sawdust to make up for any lack in that area.

“Used to take Brummell a whole morning just to do up his cravat,” his lordship continued consideringly, wondering if sky-blue satin would be flattering to his own figure. "Just pin that lace thing-o-ma-bob around your neck and be done with it, don’t you? And the ladies seem to like it. Maybe you have something here, St. Clair. Thought satins would take longer, but if they don’t—well, mayhap I’ll give them a try m’self. Rather weary of Brummell’s midnight blue and black, you know.”

“Charles,” Lady Undercliff interrupted, her smile of pleasure and triumph at having snagged St. Clair for her ball rapidly freezing in place as she listened to her bull of a husband making a cake of himself, “you are neglecting our other guests. Lord Osgood, Sir Gladwin, Mr. Trumble—we are so pleased you’ve agreed to grace our small party this evening.”

Lord St. Clair stood back to allow his friends to move forward and greet their host and hostess, which they did in order of their social prominence.

Lord Osmond Osgood, a tall though rather portly young gentleman known to his cronies as Ozzie, was first to approach, winking at the earl before clumsily bowing over her ladyship’s hand and backing away once more, nearly tripping over his own feet.

Sir Gladwin Penley, his usual uninspired gray rig-out brightened by his trademark yellow waistcoat, simultaneously apologized for his tardiness and grabbed hold of Lord Osgood’s forearm, saving that man from an ignominious tumble back down the staircase. “My delight in the evening knows no bounds, my lady,” he intoned solemnly, giving no hint to the fact that he’d been dragged to the Portman Square mansion under threat of having St. Clair in charge of the dressing of him for a fortnight if he cried off in favor of the new farce at Covent Garden.

George Trumble was the last to bow over Lady Undercliff’s pudgy hand, keeping his comments brief and hardly heartfelt, for everyone was aware the only reason an invitation had been delivered to his door was the usual one: If George Trumble were not one of the party, then the hostess could go cry for St. Clair’s presence. “How good of you to invite me, your ladyship,” he said quietly, then turned his back on the woman before she could be sure she’d seen cold disdain in his eyes.

But if George Trumble knew he was here on sufferance, and Sir Gladwin Penley may have already been wishing himself elsewhere, and Lord Osmond Osgood might be wondering how soon they could leave without causing a stir, Baron Christian St. Clair’s posture showed him to be in his element.

He turned back to Lady Undercliff and offered her his arm, telling her without words that it was no longer necessary for her to stand at the top of the stairs now that the premier guest had arrived.

And if the Prince Regent did dare venture out of Carleton House under cover of darkness to attend, well then, he could just find his own way into the ballroom.

With her ladyship at his side, and Lord Undercliff following along behind with the remainder of the St. Clair’s entourage, the baron entered the ballroom just as the clocks all struck twelve, stopping just inside the archway to gift the other occupants of the room with a long, appreciative look at the magnificence—indeed, the splendor—that was Baron Christian St. Clair.

MISS GABRIELLE LAURENCE was enjoying herself immensely, as befitted both her hopes for her debut and the reality of the past ten days that had found all her most earnest wishes coming true. For her instant success within the rarefied confines of Mayfair and the select members of the ton was not the result of mere happenstance.

Gabrielle had planned for it—indeed, trained for it—and if her smile was brighter than most, her manner more ingratiating, her conversation more scintillating, her behavior, her gowns, her air of vibrancy more interesting than was the case for any of the other hopeful debutantes, those young ladies who were not enjoying a similar success had only themselves to blame.

The Undercliff Ball had proven to be another feather in Gabrielle’s figurative cap of social success, the evening thus far a never-ending whirl of waltzes with dukes, cups of lemonade brought to her by adoring swains, effusive compliments on her “ravishing” gown, her “glorious” hair, her “rosebud” lips, and even a single stolen kiss on the balcony, especially when she considered that the “thief” had been no less than Lord Edgar Wexter, heir to one of the premier estates in Sussex.

All in all, Gabrielle Laurence was at this moment a very happy young woman, which explained her sudden chagrin when she belatedly realized that the young viscount she had been regaling with the latest gossip about Princess Caroline was no longer listening to her but instead staring in the general direction of the doorway, his usually vacant blue eyes glazed over with slavish admiration.

Gabrielle sighed, snapping open her fan to furiously beat at the air beneath her softly dimpled chin. “I’d look,” she said to herself—for the viscount certainly didn’t hear her, and probably wouldn’t if she screamed the words at him—“but I already know what I would see. It’s that overdressed ape St. Clair, isn’t it?”

No matter where she was, Gabrielle knew she could not for long escape hearing about Baron Christian St. Clair, arbiter of fashion, purveyor of inane wit, and the single man who held the power of social life or death over the members of the ton.

No matter what she was doing, her enjoyment of the moment could be instantly reduced to ashes by his entrance onto the scene, where he immediately became the cynosure of all eyes, the center of the social universe.

The man wielded more power than the Prince Regent, held more social consequence than Beau Brummell had ever commanded, and was more sought after than the Duke of Wellington, hero of the late war against Bonaparte.