Mary Nichols - The Incomparable Countess

‘Over all the years, this is what I remember most about you,’ he murmured. ‘The graceful way you move when you dance.’

‘Really, my lord?’ she said, deciding to accept the compliment as a tease and answer in like manner. ‘Is that all?’

‘No, it is far from all, but I doubt you want to hear what other things I remember.’

She should bring the conversation to an end, she knew that, but the seventeen-year-old inside her loved compliments and it was the seventeen-year-old inside her who was holding sway at that moment. She looked up at him and laughed. ‘Are they so dreadful, these other things, that I should be ashamed of them?’

‘Not dreadful at all, but delightful. The way you laugh, which is more like a husky chuckle. And the way your hair curls in your neck so lovingly and the way your eyes light up when you are animated. And your mouth. I do not think I can begin to describe that…’

She stumbled, but his firm hand held her upright and she was able to bring her steps and her swiftly beating heart under control. ‘Loscoe, I do believe you are trying to flirt with me.’

‘Of course,’ he said solemnly, though there was a twinkle in his eyes. ‘And you are not indifferent, are you?’

She wished he had not used that word. The years rolled on and the seventeen-year-old faded to be replaced by the mature woman, the cool Society hostess. ‘Every woman likes compliments, but she would be a ninny to take them seriously, especially when they are delivered by someone so obviously skilled in the art.’

‘You think I am skilled? My goodness, that must mean your swains are singularly inept for I have been buried in the country for years and am sadly out of practice.’

‘Then I should hate to be one of this Season’s innocents, if you are going to practise on them. Heartbreak does not come easy when you are seventeen.’

‘I have no intention of breaking anyone’s heart,’ he said, serious now. ‘I cannot think why you should imagine that I would.’

‘It is said you are looking for a new wife and that is why you are come to London.’

‘Now, do you know, that is news to me.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘And you speak of being seventeen. Is that significant?’

She, who prided herself on the way she could guide a conversation, keep everything light when it needed to be light and serious when seriousness was called for, seemed to have lost control of this one. ‘Not especially, but I think you are expected to make your choice from this Season’s debutantes.’

‘Am I indeed? I wonder what Lavinia would say to a stepmother who is little older than herself.’ He smiled. ‘Can you imagine it?’

Frances smiled to herself. Lady Lavinia would make short work of anyone who could not master her. ‘I am only twelve years older than my stepdaughter and we are very fond of each other,’ she said.

‘Ah, but you are you.’

‘And what does that mean?’

The dance was coming to and end and he did not answer, as she dipped into a deep curtsy and he bowed with a flourish and offered his arm to escort her from the floor. ‘I shall come back for the waltz before supper,’ he said, as he relinquished her.

She could not help it; she had to have the last word. ‘My, how can someone buried in the country for goodness knows how many years know the steps of the waltz?’

His smile, as he turned from her, faded almost to a grimace. She still had the power to make him tremble with desire, but she was so elegantly detached, so cool, that even her banter was meant to put him in his place, inform him that she, just as well as he, could flirt and mean nothing by it. But his compliments had been genuine; he had surprised himself when he uttered them. Had he really been harbouring such memories for seventeen years?

He shook himself and strode across the floor to where Lady Willoughby guarded her daughter and bowed before them. ‘Miss Willoughby, may I request the pleasure of this country dance?’

Felicity, prompted by her mother, sank into a deep curtsy, her face red with pleasure, then laid her hand upon his arm to be led onto the floor, which set the mamas a-twitter again.

Frances watched them, feeling drained. He had been arrogant seventeen years before and he was arrogant now. He had enjoyed making her squirm, enjoyed the buzz of conversation which followed him wherever he went, positively glowed with satisfaction when he was surrounded by sycophantic mamas, all trying to put forward their daughters. Surely he would not marry one of them?

It was not beyond the bounds of possibility. After all, she had married George and he had been older than Marcus was now. It often happened when a widower needed heirs or someone to be a second mother to the heirs he already had: he chose a very young lady. Wives who were young were usually also strong, able to bear children and look after elderly husbands when they became frail. They did it for the jointure they would receive on becoming a widow. And widows had more freedom than spinsters. As she did. She valued that freedom.

Smiling, she mingled with her guests, thanking them for coming and engaging them in light conversation before moving on. She looked in on the card players, but they hardly noticed her so absorbed were they. When she returned to the ballroom, she found Percy leaning nonchalantly against a pillar, surveying the scene through his quizzing glass.

‘What are you looking at?’ she asked him.

‘His Grace, the Duke of Loscoe,’ he said. ‘Already there is speculation about which he will choose.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘I think he has more sense than to shackle himself to one of those ninnyhammers, though he is wise enough to leave the door open.’

‘That sounds so cold-blooded. You’d think he was buying a cow at market.’

He smiled and let the glass drop on its ribbon to dangle on his chest. ‘Well, he is, isn’t he? Nothing so commonplace as love comes into it. And they cannot see it. Or perhaps they do not care to.’

‘Percy, I do believe you are envious.’

‘Not while he confines his attentions to those empty-headed chits, though if he were to turn his eye in another direction, I might not be so easy about it.’

She was intrigued. ‘What other direction?’

‘Oh, it is of no consequence,’ he said airily. ‘Come, they are making sets for the Sir Roger de Coverley. Let us take to the floor and show how it is done.’

It was not easy to converse during the country dance, but she was puzzled. Sir Percival Ponsonby, the confirmed bachelor who always maintained that marriage was nothing more than enslavement, in love! She could not imagine it. ‘What did you mean, another direction?’ she demanded as they left the floor at the end of the dance. ‘I cannot believe you are in love. You have always been outspoken against marriage. Leg-shackled, I believe is the word you are wont to use.’

‘Being in love has nothing to do with marriage, Fanny. It is only women who insist on linking the two.’

‘Oh, you are talking about a light o’ love,’ she teased. ‘Who is she this time?’

He turned to look down at her, smiling. ‘Now, you do not expect me to tell you, do you?’

‘No, of course not, you would be too much the gentleman.’ She laughed. ‘Go and dance with someone else or you will have the gossips talking about us and that I will not have.’

‘Very well.’ He bowed and left her with Mrs Butterworth, whose plump face was wreathed in smiles.

‘It has been a wonderful evening,’ that good lady said. ‘Of course we have yet to deduct your expenses, but I think we can safely say the orphans will benefit by a considerable sum.’

‘I will cover the expenses,’ said a voice.

Frances whirled round to find the Duke at her elbow. ‘Your Grace, I did not know you were there.’