Nicola Cornick - Lady Polly

For a moment Polly’s dark gaze met Sir Marmaduke’s, then she looked away. She took another mouthful of fruit punch without noticing. It was so easy to take refuge in her glass to avoid difficult subjects. And the drink was so refreshing and unusual. Normally she was only allowed lemonade, which, now she considered it, was ridiculous for one of her age and experience. The Dowager Countess was such a high stickler, Polly thought. Perhaps it was time she asserted her independence.

“Your squalid gossip is of no interest to me, sir,” she said distantly, wishing that more congenial company would present itself. Unfortunately, Lady Seagrave was still chatting, glancing across at her daughter with unusual and misplaced satisfaction. It would take a brave soul to interrupt Sir Marmaduke now that he was so entrenched, Polly thought resignedly. As if to underline the point, the elderly baronet stretched his arm along the back of Polly’s chair and leaned closer. His breath was stale with wine.

“Can I not please you?” Sir Marmaduke murmured. “When my sole intention is your delight, beauteous lady—”

“Your servant, Lady Polly. Shipley…”

Polly almost jumped. She felt a quiver of awareness along her nerves even before her hand was taken by Lord Henry Marchnight himself. Perhaps it was the drink, which she was now regarding suspiciously, or perhaps the effect of Lord Henry’s presence, but she felt suddenly light-headed.

“I am persuaded,” Lord Henry said gently, “that you would do so much better dancing with me, Lady Polly. Will you do me the honour?”

For a moment, as Polly’s startled dark eyes met Lord Henry’s narrowed, lazy gaze, she had the oddest feeling that he knew she had been thinking of him. Various thoughts jostled for dominance in her mind. Her first was that Lord Henry never asked her to dance. How could he, when he seldom even spoke to her? The second thought was that this was a waltz and the Dowager Countess would not approve. The third was that she was feeling ever so slightly odd—not unpleasantly odd, but definitely a little adrift…Which no doubt explained how she came to be waltzing in Lord Henry’s arms before she even had chance to think about it properly.

The lilt of the music was very seductive and Lord Henry was an exceptionally good dancer. After one circuit of the floor, Polly realized with some incredulity that she felt rather delightfully abandoned, like thistledown floating on air. Lord Henry was holding her at an entirely respectable distance from his body, but nevertheless the strength of his arm about her, the unfamiliar brush of his thigh against the slippery material of her dress, was peculiarly exciting. Polly blinked slightly, aware that she was not feeling quite normal, but the thought slid away, out of reach. Normal? She felt marvellous.

“You are keeping dangerous company tonight, Lady Polly,” Lord Henry said in her ear. The thought of his lips so close to the sensitive skin of her neck sent a delicious shiver through Polly. She tried to pull herself together. What on earth was wrong with her this evening?

“Are all the Seagraves courting scandal?” Lord Henry continued. “First your brother sets himself up as Lady Bolt’s new…” he hesitated “…new flirt, then you grant Sir Marmaduke Shipley a tête-à-tête and compound your daring by dancing with me!”

Polly looked up fully into his face for the first time. His words crystallised the thought which had entered her head when first he had whisked her from under Sir Marmaduke’s nose. Sir Marmaduke liked to consider himself a rake, but Lord Henry was the really dangerous one, a marauding tiger loose amongst the innocent flock of debutantes. Whatever was she about, to be dancing with him with such abandonment? Across the dance floor, she could see that the Dowager Countess had finally finished her conversation and was glaring at her most meaningfully. Polly felt exasperated. Why had her mother not objected to the unwelcome attentions of the odious Sir Marmaduke and yet had immediately perceived Lord Henry’s arrival? It was most unfair. She deliberately looked the other way.

Lucille had once said, without an iota of partiality, that Lord Henry Marchnight was the best-looking man that she had ever seen. Polly could certainly understand what she meant, for Lord Henry had the classical regularity of feature beloved of all sculptors and painters. His thick fair hair, immaculately ruffled in the Windswept style, made ladies long to run their fingers through it. The lazy appraisal of those grey eyes could, as one infatuated maiden declared, positively cause one to swoon, and his sporting pursuits had given him a physique envied by those less favoured.

“Are you really so dangerous then, sir?” Polly heard herself say. Surely that could not be her voice, so light, so teasing? She never flirted!

“I am accounted dangerous, certainly.” Lord Henry had given her a quizzical glance, no doubt as surprised by Polly’s flirtatiousness as she was herself.

“A real tiger, then, not merely a pussycat?”

This time Lord Henry’s look was rather more searching. “Have you been drinking the arrack punch, Lady Polly?”

“Certainly not.” Polly said with dignified aplomb. “I had some delicious fruit cup, but what is that to the purpose, pray?”

“Ah, the fruit cup,” Lord Henry murmured with a slight smile. “It is so refreshing, is it not? I see the Dowager Countess is looking daggers at us,” he continued indolently. “I must shortly redeem myself in her eyes and return you to her unscathed!”

“Oh, no!” Polly had suddenly remembered that she had promised Lucille that she would speak to Lord Henry about a matter of importance. She frowned in concentration, trying to remember what exactly the issue had been. It was something potentially difficult…embarrassing…but she did not feel embarrassed at the moment, only marvellously liberated. Her mind was a little fuzzy at the edges, perhaps, but she had not felt this confident in a long time! It was a moment before she realised that Lord Henry was looking at her with amusement.

“I beg your pardon, Lady Polly?”

“No, do not take me back just yet, sir!” Polly tried to grasp the appropriate words. “I…there is a matter I need…must discuss with you!”

“Indeed!” A faint smile touched Lord Henry’s firm mouth once more. “You intrigue me, madam! I am at your disposal, of course!”

The music was ending. Lord Henry gave her a mocking bow, taking her arm to escort her through the crowd and across to one of the silk-draped alcoves. It was sufficiently far from her mother to make Polly feel much more confident. She could deal with this matter without the Dowager Lady Seagrave even realising!

Lord Henry stood aside for her to sit down first, but she made no move to do so. He raised an eyebrow. “Well, Lady Polly? What is this urgent matter that demands our attention? Will you not sit down so that I may at least do the same?”

Polly discovered that her thought processes were suddenly beautifully clear.

“I meant,” she said deliberately, “that I needed to speak to you in private. Not here. There are too many people about!”

This time, Lord Henry did not scruple to hide his surprise. “A somewhat equivocal remark, my lady!” he said, with an ironic inflection. “Are you sure that is what you mean? It seems most singular.”

Polly frowned at him. She had no time for argument. All she was aware of was the single-minded need to fulfil her purpose.

“The terrace should suffice, my lord,” she said briskly, turning towards the door and praying that he would follow. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Dowager Countess getting heavily to her feet. It was a long way around the dance floor and the room was crowded, but it would take a determined Mama seconds only to rescue her charge. Polly saw one of the Dowager Countess’s acquaintance accost her and heaved a sigh of relief. Old Lady Odgers was notoriously chatty and would not be easy to shake off. She prayed that this would give her enough time.