Anabelle Bryant - His Forbidden Debutante

Chapter Three

Isn’t it peculiar how our letters cross in the post only for us to discover, when they arrive, we’ve asked each other the same questions? Perhaps it indicates we are of like mind. In answer to your queries, I enjoy reading, although my sister’s love of poetry surpasses my interest in novels. I’d much rather attend a gathering than spend time within the pages of a book. I have a passion for flowers, yellow roses in particular, and favour candied orange peel above all sweets. The most embarrassing situation I’ve ever experienced occurred during my best friend Esme’s birthday celebration. We were chattering away until I developed a ridiculous case of the hiccups. Esme suggested I inhale ground pepper to restore my breathing pattern but the result produced a sneeze so large my spectacles landed in the ratafia bowl. To this day, whenever we recall the incident, we laugh until our sides ache. Thank heavens no one else noticed. I’ve never told another soul.

Penwick folded the letter with care and replaced it within his breast pocket. How foolish to continue to live in the past and yearn for a woman who had disappeared without a trace or reason. Didn’t she owe an explanation to their friendship?

Friendship.

What a farce. Over time, he’d developed feelings, a deep emotional connection that, were he to allow it into the light of day, would consume his soul. The emotion hadn’t mellowed as time passed, but fermented in potency and grown in strength so that it barely fitted within the portion of him where he crowded his most precious memories.

Preparing for his dance lesson had proven a weakness he now regretted. Filing through Lavinia’s letters to find this one, a favourite, where her voice spoke directly to his heart, and then, subsequently, choosing to carry it with him, had proved pure idiocy.

He’d need to do better. He was to be married in less than a fortnight to a woman who cared for him and would soon vow to produce his children and provide an amiable home life.

He crossed his hand over his chest, the letter beneath the thick wool of his coat, the words against his heart. What had happened to Lavinia? Why did she suddenly vanish? He had no answers. Worse, his world had upended soon after, the responsibilities of the earldom consuming all time and energy. When he had tried to find her and travelled to the address on the letters, he’d ended up leaving Shropshire with more questions than answers. Why had fate brought them together only to leave their relationship unfinished?

The carriage rocked to a stop and he was forced from his disquieting reverie. All the better as he was not brave enough to consider the condition of his heart at the moment.

The footman opened the door and extended the steps. Monarch Hall stood with stoic patience across the cobblestone street. People bustled along the walkway, brushing shoulders and exchanging conversation, their worlds filled with laughter. Businessmen and citizens went about their schedule with focus and determination. Day by day the world moved forward, as evidenced by the newsboy on the corner, a fresh daily waved high in the air.

Yet here he stood, one foot in the past and the other stalled in the present. He forced himself off the curb and towards the brick-faced two-storey building. Elongated windows stretched towards the sky, the weather clear, an unlikely occurrence as late afternoon yawned its surrender to night.

He’d commissioned Monsieur Bournon’s services as soon as he’d set his mind to marry. For all his fancy footwork while fencing, he’d never mastered the most popular waltzes, having been living in the country only a short time prior, unaware an earldom would command his attention post-haste. Still, the steps came easily and he soon realised the graceful agility needed for a successful raddoppio or passata-sotto while holding his blade could seamlessly transfer into a box-turn or glide while dancing.

Sunlight mingled with candlelight through the large panes as he strode towards the door, not wishing to be late and at the same time anxious to begin. He kept his attendance at these lessons secret, most of his personal life as concealed as possible. With exacting attention, he focused on learning everything an earl needed to know and more.

Twisting the knob, he came up short as he entered, a stranger waiting in the inner foyer where Monsieur Bournon usually greeted him. Penwick’s lessons were private and individual. He’d never seen this stout man before and would surely have remembered his distinguishing appearance. Dressed in casual clothing, loose-fitting pants and a plain linen shirt, it was the man’s outlandish moustache that caused a person to glance twice, the ends of it surpassing the corners of his mouth and turning upward as if begging one to smile.

‘Good afternoon, milord. I am Mr Moira. Monsieur Bournon has been called away on business and has asked me to conduct your lesson.’ The stranger stepped forward and extended his hand in greeting. ‘He apologises for any inconvenience, but I assure you I am adept at dance instruction and will continue your training with skill.’

‘I see.’ Taken aback by the change in circumstance, Penwick wondered how the instruction would be accomplished. Monsieur Bournon knew of his desire to keep his lessons confidential and therefore respected his wishes. The master supplied a different dance partner each session, so not only was Penwick guaranteed privacy, but the lady participant never grew to know him. It was a most convenient arrangement. ‘Has Monsieur informed you of the conditions?’

‘In entirety.’

Moira stepped aside so Penwick could enter further and shed his greatcoat. He hung the garment on the rack, hesitating with a backward glance at his pocket before they walked towards the ballroom area where each lesson was held. Outside the door, Moira paused once again.

‘In order to accommodate everyone’s lesson within this unexpected time of absence, we’ve arranged for your partner to be another of Monsieur’s students.’

Penwick jerked attention to the instructor. ‘Now see here, Moira. I pay Bournon an exorbitant sum each week for his professional instruction and now not only will I miss his expertise, but I’ll be partnered with someone who may not execute the correct steps.’ There was no reason for his outright annoyance concerning the unlikely change in circumstance and he shook his head to excuse the sharp reply, but with the wedding looming in the near future, every lesson seemed imperative.

He should never have reread that old letter. Somehow, the amusing words had conjured all kinds of inconvenient feelings and awakened the restlessness and disappointment he worked hard to keep buried; his uncooperative outburst the result.

‘Please understand, milord. Monsieur Bournon feels terribly about this inconvenience and had he not been summoned by the Prince Regent would never have left you with short notice of this change in plans. Nevertheless, the lady is an accomplished student who is here to polish her skills more than interpret the steps. She will be the perfect match for your ability. I have every confidence.’ Moira appeared worried by the conversation, his mouth held in a firm line, his brow furrowed, though he continued with assertive insistence. ‘You must at least begin the lesson. Then, if you are displeased, you may leave and I will notify Monsieur Bournon that I have failed in mollifying your request and managing his intentions, but do bear in mind that, when summoned by the Crown, one does not hesitate.’

A shadow of guilt for his initial overreaction diffused Penwick’s distemper. He was to be married and it would not suit to be waltzing with a lady of society for an hour of dance instruction, but there truly was nothing to be done about it. ‘Very well. I’m here now. Let us join the lady in the hall, but please remember not to address me by name. It’s important no one knows of my attendance here.’ He recovered all aplomb and waited for the instructor’s consent.