Louise Allen - The Outrageous Lady Felsham

Bel unclasped the diamanté brooch that had been holding the rosebuds in place. They were beginning to lose their firmness, the delicate petals felt like limp velvet under her fingers.

‘Will you fetch me a box of salt, please?’ she asked the dresser. ‘About so big?’ She gestured with her hands six inches apart.

‘Now, my lady?’

‘Yes, please. These are so pretty, I intend to preserve them as a memory of the first social engagement of my new life.’

‘Very well, my lady.’ Expressionless, Philpott helped her into her robe, handed her the hairbrush and went out. Did she guess the real reason Bel wanted to keep the flowers? If she did, she was far too well trained to let a flicker cross her face.

Bel pulled the bristles through her hair in a steady rhythm, contemplating her aunt’s demand that she engage a companion, then shook her head, sending the heavy fall of hair swishing back and forth against the silk of her robe. Privacy was difficult enough with a houseful of servants, let alone with some stranger, obsessed with propriety and convinced her employer required her company at all times.

No, life like this might be a trifle lonely, but she had grown used to that, even when Henry had been alive. In fact, loneliness was a welcome space of peace and privacy. Those things were more important than satisfying the conventions.

The guests at Mrs Steppingley’s party proved every bit as entertaining as she had promised. After an hour Bel had met a colonel from one of the Brunswick regiments, a gentleman pursuing researches into hot-air balloons as a means of transport for freight, several charming young girls, wide-eyed with excitement at their first ‘proper’ dancing party, a poetess and an alarmingly masculine bluestocking who, on hearing who she was, delivered a diatribe on the mistaken opinions of her Aunt Louisa on the evolution of English church architecture.

As Bel was just about capable of differentiating between a font and a water stoop and had not the slightest understanding of the vital importance of rood screens, she was greatly relieved to be rescued by the poetess, Miss Layne, who tactfully removed her with the entirely specious excuse that Bel had promised Miss Layne her escort into the room where the dancing was about to begin.

‘Phew! At least Miss Farrington despises dancing, so she will not pursue us in here.’ Miss Layne found them seats halfway along the wall and sank down with a hunted look back at the doorway. She fanned herself vigorously, giving Bel a chance to study her. She supposed she must be about forty, a slender woman with soft mouse-brown hair, amused hazel eyes and an air of being interested in everything. ‘What a bore she is.’ She suddenly whipped a notebook out of her reticule, jotted a note and stuffed it back again.

Bel blinked. ‘Inspiration?’ she enquired.

‘Yes! See that young couple over there, pretending not to look at each other. So sweet, and so gauche. It gave me an idea. I have a fancy to write a really romantic verse story.’

‘Will I find your work at Hatchard’s?’ Bel enquired. ‘I am afraid I am very ignorant about poetry. My husband considered it frivolous, so I never used to buy it, although I have to confess to reading my way through Lord Byron’s works at the moment.’

‘Yes, you will find mine there, I have several volumes in print. But you must allow me to send you one as a gift. Some are frivolous, some are serious. But I see no harm in occasional frivolity—’ Miss Layne broke off, her gaze fixed at something over Bel’s shoulder. ‘And speaking of frivolity, what a very beautiful man. Lord Byron would give his eye teeth for such a hero.’

Bel did not have to turn around to know who it was out of all the handsome men in London at the moment. The very air seemed to carry the awareness of Reynard to her, as intensely as if he was running his hands over her quivering skin.

‘Really?’ she made herself say lightly, stamping on that unsettling image. ‘I am all agog, Miss Layne, I do hope he passes by us so I can see, for I can hardly turn round and stare—’

‘Lady Belinda. Madam.’ Yes, it was Reynard and her pulse was all over the place. Miss Layne was looking up at him with the air of a lepidopterist who has just found a rare species of butterfly and was wondering where her net had gone. Bel pulled herself together. A surge of lust, for she supposed that was what was afflicting her, was no excuse for a lady to forget her manners.

‘Lord Dereham, good evening. Miss Layne, may I introduce Lord Dereham?’

They shook hands. ‘Miss Layne—not the author of Thoughts on an English Riverbank?’

‘Why, yes. It was published at the end of last year,’ she explained to Bel. ‘You have read it, Lord Dereham?’

‘On the eve of the battle of Quatre Bras, Miss Layne. It was a lovely contrast to the scenes around me, and I must thank you for it.’

The poetess beamed up at him. ‘I am delighted to have been able to provide a distraction at such a time.’

‘More than that: a reminder of what we were fighting for.’

Bel bit her lip at the undercurrent of emotion in the controlled voice, then he was smiling again. ‘May I have the honour of a dance, Miss Layne?’

‘I do not dance, Lord Dereham, Lady Belinda kindly rescued me from an importunate acquaintance and we took refuge in here.’

‘Lady Belinda is a notable rescuer of all her friends,’ Reynard observed seriously. ‘If you are merely hiding in here and the other gentlemen have not yet found you, then perhaps your dance card has a vacancy for me, Lady Belinda?’

Bel laughed, flipping open the fold of embossed card that hung from a cord around her wrist to show him. ‘Quite empty, Lord Dereham. I have been talking too much to look for partners, I fear.’ She liked the way he had asked the older woman first instead of simply assuming she would not be dancing. It was thoughtful, but done without the slightest suggestion of patronage.

‘May I?’ He lifted the card, his fingers brushing against hers. Even through the thickness of two pairs of evening gloves Bel seemed to feel the warmth. She made herself sit still while he took the tiny pencil and stared at the list of dances. The noise of the orchestra carrying out its final tuning faded as she looked at his bent head. She knew what that thick golden hair felt like against her cheek, she knew what it looked like, tousled from sleep, and her free hand strained against her willpower to lift and touch it.

‘There. I hope that is acceptable.’ He had put down a waltz as well as a country dance. Bel opened her mouth to tell him that she would not be waltzing, then threw her resolution overboard with an almost audible splash. This was Reynard; she wanted to be in his arms and she could admit to herself a disgraceful impulse to make other women envious.

‘May I fetch you ladies some lemonade?’ They shook their heads with a murmur of thanks. ‘Then I will see you for the second country dance, Lady Belinda.’

‘That man has lovely manners,’ Miss Layne remarked as they watched Reynard’s retreating back. ‘Oh, good! There is my brother now, I was not certain if he was coming tonight.’ She waved and a slender, brown-haired man who was just passing Reynard waved back and began to make his way across to them.

‘Kate, fancy finding you in the ballroom!’ Mr Layne was considerably younger than his sister, but he had her soft brown hair and quizzical hazel eyes. He smiled at her affectionately and bowed to Bel. ‘Ma’am.’

‘Lady Belinda, may I introduce my brother, Mr Layne. Patrick, Lady Belinda Felsham.’

Bel shook hands and gestured to the vacant chair beside her. ‘Mr Layne?’

‘Thank you, Lady Belinda, but I am promised for the next dance. Might I ask if you can spare me one later? Although I expect your card is filled already.’