Marguerite Kaye - Scandal At The Christmas Ball - A Governess for Christmas / Dancing with the Duke’s Heir

She was not, however, the only guest to seek this secluded spot. Lady Beatrice, dressed in a deceptively simple gown of puce figured silk with piped satin trimming, was standing in the shadow of the long curtains. ‘A wise decision, Miss Forsythe,’ she said coolly. ‘If one is set upon eating an apple, there are plenty in the fruit bowl to be taken without destroying one’s coiffure.’

‘Or making one’s gown virtually transparent.’

‘Neither dilemma seems to have occurred to Miss Canningvale,’ Lady Beatrice said, eyeing the flame-haired beauty disdainfully. ‘Though if her objective is to draw the attention of every male in the company, she is succeeding. Just look at Aubrey Kenelm, he is positively mesmerised.’

‘Perhaps he has made a wager on her success,’ Joanna said drily.

‘More likely he has made a wager on the probability of her bosom falling out of that dress, and if she leans over into the bath one inch further—oh, please, do not pretend to be shocked, Miss Forsythe.’

Joanna laughed. ‘I am surprised, not shocked, and Mr Kenelm is about to lose his bet. Look, Captain Milborne has come to the rescue with a towel and an apple.’

‘A practical man, and a thoughtful one,’ Lady Beatrice said. ‘Much underestimated qualities, don’t you think? I can’t imagine Captain Milborne lisping poetry and sending flowers, and treating one as if she were a feather-witted piece of Sèvres that might fracture in a summer zephyr. Why is it, do you think, that so many men believe beauty and brains are incompatible?’

Joanna laughed nervously. ‘Clearly not in your case.’

Lady Beatrice shrugged. ‘It would be much better for me if it were so. I am nearly thirty, Miss Forsythe, yet I cannot bring myself to play the vacuous ninny the men who court me desire in a wife.’

Joanna, who hadn’t thought of Evan in years, now found herself thinking of him for the second time in a day. He had not thought her a vacuous ninny, but he had not been much interested in any of her thoughts. ‘Perhaps you have not met the right man,’ she said.

‘Your words lack conviction, Miss Forsythe,’ Lady Beatrice replied sardonically. ‘I think you are as cynical as I. I wish I was a man,’ she confessed with a heartfelt sigh. ‘If I were a man, I could enter politics, and that is what I wish above all. The power to influence events, Miss Forsythe, not what passes for love, that is what would make me truly happy. Have I shocked you?’

‘You have reminded me it is wrong to make assumptions based on first impressions.’

‘Talking of which, I think the rather intimidating Mr MacIntosh assumed he would be spending what is left of this evening in your company. He has scarce taken his eyes off you. He is looking over at you again now. What did he say to you, may I ask, to make you seek refuge here by the window?’

‘I asked him an impertinent question and he lightly slapped me down. I suspect I overreacted.’

In the centre of the room, a narrow wooden beam had been suspended from the roof by two lengths of rope. Aubrey Kenelm was removing his jacket and rolling up his sleeves, amidst much cheering from the other guests. Shoeing the wild mare, the game was called, the amateur farrier expected to mount the wooden horse and to hammer the underside on a marked spot, four times in eight blows. It did not look particularly difficult, but Mr Kenelm was struggling to get on to the beam, which swayed alarmingly, and was just far enough off the ground for his legs to be unable to gain purchase on the ballroom floor when he was positioned in the ‘saddle’. Drummond had joined them now, standing next to young Mr Throckton.

‘I kissed him,’ Joanna confessed abruptly. ‘Drummond—Mr MacIntosh—I kissed him, and now I think that he might think—I don’t know what he thinks,’ she admitted, her cheeks flaming.

‘What do you think, Miss Forsythe? Did you enjoying kissing him?’

‘This is becoming a very personal conversation. Yes, if you must know, I did enjoy it. Very much.’

Lady Beatrice raised her brows. ‘I’ve always found kissing a rather insipid pastime.’

Joanna laughed, part scandalised, part in admiration. ‘That has been my limited experience, until today.’

‘Then you need a rapprochement with Mr MacIntosh, if you wish to experience more of it. If you do desire such a thing?’

Aubrey Kenelm, having finally succeeded in mounting the wild mare, was ignominiously thrown tumbling to the ground as he leaned over with his hammer.

‘Your silence speaks volumes,’ Lady Beatrice said. ‘I rather think this game will provide much entertainment,’ she added, with what in a lesser-bred person would surely be called glee. ‘Let us go and enjoy the spectacle.’

* * *

One male guest after another had dismally failed to ‘shoe the wild mare’. Watching with trepidation, knowing he could not refuse his turn, Drummond was extremely relieved when Captain Milborne, exhorted by Miss Canningvale, finally achieved the feat.

‘You do not feel the need to try to equal the Captain?’

Drummond turned to find Joanna at his shoulder. ‘I have no wish to steal his thunder. Look, I shouldn’t have brushed you off as I did.’

‘There is no need to apologise. We have known each other for little more than a day. It was presumptuous of me to question you, and silly of me to take offence when you chose not to confide in me.’

‘I would like to explain, all the same,’ Drummond said sheepishly. ‘Our acquaintance may be short, but I don’t feel—I find that I would like you to understand. If you would like to...’

‘I would.’

He saw his own relief reflected in her eyes. And something else too. Not only liking. She too thought them alike, he’d not misunderstood. Drummond looked around anxiously for a way to escape.

A game of Blind Man’s Buff was getting underway. The majority of the guests were shouting out and running around while poor Miss Creighton as ‘it’, a silk cravat tied around her eyes, stumbled about in pursuit. At the other end of the ballroom, the Duke and Duchess were supervising the setting up of a huge shallow punch bowl filled with raisins. The Duke was pouring brandy from a decanter over the dried fruit. The Duchess was tugging at his sleeve, obviously concerned that he was utilising too much spirit. Later, the brandy-soaked raisins would be lit, the ballroom dimmed, and in the dark the foolhardy would try to snatch the ‘snap dragons’ from the hot punch. It had been a popular game in the Mess at Christmas. Drummond was very good at it, but he wasn’t in the least bit interested, at this precise moment, in demonstrating his prowess.

A round of applause signalled Miss Creighton’s success in handing over the mantle of ‘it’ to another. Drummond grabbed Joanna’s arm and rushed the pair of them through the nearest door. It led to a small retiring room lit by a single lamp on a round table, two low-backed chairs set opposite each other by the grate. ‘The Duke and Duchess’s retreat, I suspect,’ he said. ‘I wonder if there’s a spyhole into the ballroom? It wouldn’t surprise me. His Grace has a reputation for being all-seeing and all-knowing.’

He waited for Joanna to seat herself, then took the other chair. ‘When you asked me if I was in two minds about being here...’ He smoothed his finger over his brow, feeling the tiny indent of the scar. ‘Ach, the truth is that I am.’

‘You sound very Scottish when you say that. Akk.’

‘Ach,’ he said, accentuating the accent for her benefit, enjoying the way she smiled at him, the soft curve of her breasts above the neckline of her gown, the flush in her cheeks, the glint of red that the firelight reflected in her hair. He leant over to touch her hand. ‘Though I am glad I came, for if I had not I would not have met you, the reason I’m here in the first place is because the Duke of Wellington more or less commanded me to come.’