A Summer to Remember

Chapter 2

Lauren arrived at Lady Mannering’s ball the following week in company with the Duke and Duchess of Anburey and the Marquess of Attingsborough. After much initial resistance, she had agreed to attend even though she was fully aware that almost the whole of the beau monde would be present. Or perhaps it was because of that fact. She had made her decision to go for sheer pride’s sake.

She was in London during the Season, and she was a member of the ton. If she maintained her decision to live a retired life as Elizabeth’s companion, she might give the lasting impression that she was afraid to appear in public, that she was afraid of being laughed at, scorned, shunned as a poor rejected bride. She was indeed afraid, mortally so, but above all else she had been raised to be a lady. And ladies did not allow fear to master them. Ladies did not abjure society merely because they were embarrassed and unhappy, merely because they felt unattractive and unwanted. Ladies did not give in to self-pity.

And so she had taken her courage in both hands and agreed to appear before the ton on one of the ton’s favorite playgrounds—a London ballroom during the Season. She would go and hold her head high and confront the demons that had shadowed her ever since that most dreadful of all mornings in the church at Newbury. She would remain in London until after Elizabeth’s confinement—the duke had brought his duchess to town so that she would be close to the best physicians—and then she would do what she had decided she really wanted to do. She would take her modest fortune and set up her own establishment, perhaps in Bath, and she would live a quiet, retired life with a small circle of select friends. She would endure this ball, because when she did, no one was going to be able to call her a coward.

The Duke of Anburey’s crested carriage took its place in the line of coaches depositing guests outside the Mannering mansion on Cavendish Square. Lauren could see that every window was ablaze with candlelight. Light spilled out from the double doors, which stood open, and illumined the red carpet that had been rolled down the steps and across the pavement. Even above the snorting of horses, the stamping of hooves, and the rumbling of wheels, she could hear the festive sound of voices raised in greeting and laughter.

It was a nerve-wracking moment and made her understand fully how much she had changed in the fourteen months since her wedding eve ball. Then she had felt very comfortably ensconced in her own milieu, perfectly at ease, perfectly assured of her own worth and her own place in the ranks of the beau monde. It was time she took that place again, not as Neville’s prospective bride and countess, it was true, but as the Honorable Miss Lauren Edgeworth. She raised her chin, an unconsciously arrogant gesture that masked her desire to jump from the carriage and run and run until Cavendish Square and Mayfair and London and her very self were far behind her.

And then it was their turn to alight. A footman opened the carriage door and set down the steps, the gentlemen descended, Uncle Webster handed Aunt Sadie down, and Joseph was reaching up a hand to assist Lauren. She took it and made her own descent to the red carpet, paying particular attention to her posture and facial expression as she did so. She knew she was looking her best. Her gown had been specially made for the occasion by Elizabeth’s own modiste, and Elizabeth had helped her choose both the fabric and the design, as well as all the accessories to wear with it. The Duchess of Portfrey was well known for her exquisite taste. But then so was Lauren Edgeworth.

Lauren smiled as her aunt and uncle made their way indoors and she laid her hand on Joseph’s offered sleeve.

“That’s it, Lauren,” he murmured approvingly, smiling at her and even winking. “You imitate a queen, my girl. Indeed you look lovelier than any queen I ever saw.”

“And how many would that be, Joseph?” she asked, picking up the front of her skirt with her free hand and walking gracefully up the steps into the crowded, brightly lit hall. She quelled the sudden panicked conviction that she must have forgotten something essential—like her gown.

“Hmm, let me see.” He pretended to consider his answer. “One actually. Our own Queen Charlotte. You are a hundred times lovelier than she.”

“Keep your voice down,” she advised him. “You will have your head chopped off for treason if anyone should overhear you.” But she slanted him a quick, grateful smile. He clearly understood something about the flock of butterflies dancing frantically in her stomach and was doing his best to distract her.

He led her toward the staircase and the slow-moving queue of guests ascending it. She drew a few deep, steadying breaths and resisted the urge to look at things rather than people. How many of the guests on the stairs, and how many guests in the ballroom above, had been at her wedding and witnessed her humiliation?

The answer was, of course, a significant number of them. But a lifetime of training can be a marvelous thing, Lauren soon discovered. It took her up the stairs, along the receiving line, and into the ballroom, which was already crowded with people who for the moment had nothing better to do than watch and comment upon the arrival of fellow guests.

She tried to concentrate upon the magnificence of the ballroom, which was lit by hundreds of candles set in three great crystal chandeliers overhead and in numerous wall sconces, and upon the sumptuous floral arrangements that filled the room with their delicate pastel shades and their perfume. And she tried—with some success—to look calmly about her, making eye contact with numerous other guests, inclining her head politely to those she recognized.

But it was her own family who killed any remote chance that she might enjoy the evening—killed it by kindness. Almost before Lauren was fully inside the ballroom, still on Joseph’s arm, her uncle and aunt close by, Wilma and Lord Sutton came along, all gracious condescension, a thin, reedy young man in tow, and made the introductions. Mr. Bartlett-Howe earnestly solicited the hand of Miss Edgeworth for the second set, it being understood that the Marquess of Attingsborough had already bespoken the first. And only a minute or so later Lord Sutton, who had wandered away, returned with yet another gentleman, who had apparently conceived a burning desire to reserve the third set with Miss Edgeworth.

It seemed that her family, concerned that she might be a wallflower at her first ball in over a year, had spent the few days since she had agreed to attend lining up prospective partners for her—and prospective suitors too?

Just a little over a year ago she had danced at her wedding eve ball, secure in her own attractiveness, the cynosure of all eyes, the admired and envied bride of the Earl of Kilbourne. Tonight she was an aging, faded beauty, unable to attract her own partners, in dire danger of declining into a permanent and irrevocable spinsterhood. Or so her family made her feel.

Lauren felt the depth of humiliation. Even Joseph’s kindness in offering to escort her to the ball was—well, it was just kindness.

Lauren smiled her unconsciously arrogant smile and plied her fan with slow grace.

When Kit and Lord Farrington arrived in Cavendish Square, the ball had been in progress for some time. But it was a clear, moonlit evening, unseasonably warm for the middle of May, and the front doors were still open wide. The merry noises of conversation and laughter spilled outside from the hall and stairs. The sound of an orchestra playing a vigorous country dance wafted down from the ballroom above.

“A squeeze indeed,” Kit said, handing his opera cloak and silk hat to a liveried, bewigged footman and looking about the entrance hall with open interest. “Do you suppose the ballroom is as crowded, Farrington?”

“Sure to be. More so, in fact.” His friend relinquished his own cloak and hat and checked the immaculate folds of his neckcloth. “We had better go up and find out.”

Kit nodded affably to a few acquaintances, mostly male, as they ascended the staircase. This was the first ball he had attended since Lisbon. He could not even remember quite how long ago that had been. He had had invitations to several here in London, of course. His wilder exploits might have caused the highest sticklers to raise disapproving eyebrows and the most conscientious parents of young ladies to gather them more protectively to the family bosom, but he was after all Viscount Ravensberg. More important, he was the son and heir of the Earl of Redfield. And this was the Season, the great marriage mart, when everyone of any consequence at all was invited almost everywhere.

“You are quite sure she is going to be here this evening?” he asked as they reached the top of the stairs and turned in the direction of the ballroom. The crowd became denser and there was a noticeable swell in the noise level. Kit was aware of increased heat and the heavy scents of a thousand flowers mingled with the expensive perfumes worn by guests.

“As sure as I can be.” Lord Farrington paused in the doorway of the ballroom and gazed unhurriedly about the milling crowds. “Sutton said she was coming and he ought to know—betrothed to Lady Wilma Fawcitt, you know. Of course, she might have contracted some deadly disease or broken a limb or simply changed her mind. Ah.” He raised his quizzing glass to his eye.

“You have seen her?” Kit asked.

He might have been feeling self-conscious since this was his first appearance in years at a grand ton entertainment, and there was no doubt that he was attracting considerable attention. A number of those not dancing were looking quite pointedly his way. Lorgnettes and quizzing glasses were raised to inquisitive eyes. Heads were moving closer to other heads as confidences were exchanged. More than a few young ladies were stealing covert glances his way, especially those who had been apprised of his identity—the shocking, forbidden Lord Ravensberg! But Kit had never been much concerned with what others thought or said of him and tonight was no different.

“The delectable Miss Merklinger,” Lord Farrington murmured, his quizzing glass trained upon one of the dancers. “All dimples and bouncing golden curls. Not to mention the bosom.”

Kit chuckled and favored the beauty in question with a long scrutiny through his own glass. “And not a day over eighteen,” he said. “Definitely not an object for your particular brand of gallantry, Farrington.”

“Lord, no,” his friend agreed with a sigh. “More is the pity. That is the attraction, I suppose. Now then, Miss Edgeworth.”

He resumed his unhasty perusal of the room and its occupants even as the set came to an end and the dancers moved off the floor to further crowd the sidelines.

“Kellard pointed her out to me in the park just three or four mornings ago,” Lord Farrington said. “I am quite certain I will recognize her again.”

“But you were not presented,” Kit said, “so cannot now introduce me to her.”

“I would not make matters that easy for you anyway,” his friend assured him. “I have a wager to win, if you will remember. Ah, there she is. Just being escorted to Attingsborough’s side by Stennson. Oh, hard lines, old chap. Anburey and his duchess are hovering over her too. She is quite hedged about with formidable gaolers.” He grinned.

“Stennson? That dry old stick?” Kit followed the direction of his friend’s gaze. He knew both the Marquess of Attingsborough and George Stennson and soon picked them out in the crowd some distance away. The older couple with them must be the duke and duchess. And the lady standing between the two gentlemen had to be the one he had come to meet. His future bride. Kit raised his glass to his eye again.

She was on the tall side and slender, he could see, but not without pleasing feminine curves. He would wager that beneath the flowing skirt and train of her high-waisted gown her legs were long and slim. She had a graceful bearing, with the sort of arch to her spine that invited a guiding male hand to nestle against the back of her waist. Her dark hair was glossy in the light of the candles. It was dressed high on her head, held there with jeweled combs, and fell about her neck and temples in soft curls. Her face was oval with high cheekbones and straight nose and large eyes—he could not see their color from where he stood. She was elegantly and fashionably dressed in a shimmering satin gown of deep violet, which she wore with silver gloves and slippers and a pale violet fan.

She was nothing short of a beauty. Kit’s lips pursed in a silent whistle.

She was conversing with her companions, but she was fanning herself and looking about at the same time. For a few moments Kit was pleasantly surprised by the smile on her face. It gave the lie, seemingly, to the notion that she was as cold as a marble statue. But the expression, he noticed as he kept watching, did not once change as she continued to converse and look about. Then it struck him that perhaps it was not so much a smile as a haughty, condescending look of contempt for all the lesser mortals within her orbit.

“A diamond of the first water,” he murmured, lowering his glass.

“Indeed,” Lord Farrington agreed. “And an impregnable fortress if ever I saw one, Ravensberg. She looks as if she considers anything short of royalty quite unworthy of her notice.” He obviously found the thought amusing.

“But then,” Kit said, looking about for their hostess, who by happy chance was making her way toward them, a smile of welcome on her face, “I always did have a weakness for impregnable fortresses, Farrington. And for other assorted impossible challenges.”

“Lord Farrington, Lord Ravensberg.” Lady Mannering was all gracious charm as she presented each of them with a gloved hand to bow over. “How delightful that you have seen fit to attend my ball. And how provoking that you have arrived so late. You cannot know what a headache it is to a hostess to have to provide all the young ladies with partners for the opening set when all the young gentlemen persist in being fashionably late.”

“But it is not with the very young ladies that I came to dance, ma’am,” Lord Farrington said with his most disarming smile. “I knew the partner of my choice would be busy for the first few sets finding partners for her guests. It was my hope that by now you might be free to honor me with your hand for a set.”

Lady Mannering laughed as she tapped his arm sharply with her closed fan. “You are a rogue, Farrington,” she said. “It would serve you right if I clung to your arm for the rest of the evening. Now, how did you succeed in luring Lord Ravensberg here? It was my understanding that he is always too busy racing his curricle to Brighton and engaging in other such fascinating manly activities to attend dull events like balls. However, his notorious presence will guarantee the unqualified success of mine.” She tapped Kit in his turn on the arm with her folded fan.

He inclined his head. “How could I resist, ma’am,” he said, “when I saw that the invitation came from one of my mother’s dearest friends?”

“I have not set eyes on your mama in years,” Lady Mannering said bluntly. “She stays in the country. Now, permit me to find partners for you both. Though if all the fond mamas do not grab their daughters and run with them the moment they see the infamous Viscount Ravensberg in my ballroom, I will be agreeably surprised.”

“Perhaps, ma’am,” Kit said, favoring her with his most engaging smile, “you would present me to Miss Edgeworth of Newbury?”

Lady Mannering’s eyebrows rose. “I believe there are younger ladies who are far more desirous of handsome, roguish partners than Miss Edgeworth,” she said. “And it is her family, rather than I, who have been choosing her partners this evening. However, if it is your wish.”

“It is, ma’am.” Kit bowed again.

“And is it also your wish?” Lady Mannering asked Lord Farrington.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, “but I see some acquaintances across the room to whom I must make myself agreeable—since you are to be otherwise engaged.”

Kit followed his hostess across the ballroom while the crowds parted to let them through. His appearance had definitely caused a buzz, he noticed with rueful amusement, though whether it was a buzz of indignation or one of speculation he neither knew nor cared. He was noticing that by a stroke of good fortune the Duke and Duchess of Anburey were engaged in conversation with a couple behind them, Stennson had disappeared, and Attingsborough was directing his attention and his gallantries toward a blushing, giggling young lady who had just stepped off the dance floor. Miss Edgeworth stood virtually unattended for the moment, still looking about her, still wearing that fixed half smile.

“Miss Edgeworth.” When Lady Mannering addressed her by name, she turned her gaze toward the newcomers, and her eyebrows arched above her eyes even as the motion of her fan was suddenly arrested. “Viscount Ravensberg has asked for the honor of an introduction.”

She regarded him with large, dark-lashed violet eyes, the exact shade of her gown—surely the most beautiful feature in an extraordinarily beautiful face. Quite a perfect knockout, in fact.

But it was a face he had surely seen before, Kit thought—and recently too. For a moment the exact occasion eluded him. But then he remembered last week’s fight in Hyde Park and the embrace with the milkmaid. When he had looked up after kissing her, he had found himself locking eyes with a shocked beauty—clearly not of the milkmaid class—some distance away and wishing fleetingly and naughtily that it was she who was caught within his embrace. But before he had been able either to grin or to wink at her, she had whipped her head about to present the back of an elegant bonnet to his gaze. When he had looked for her a short while later, she had disappeared among the crowds strolling on Rotten Row.

He had not thought of her since—until now.

Kit executed his most elegant bow.

Lauren felt a shock of recognition the moment she set eyes on him, even though he looked very different tonight—he was clothed from the neck down. He was dressed with impeccable elegance, in fact, in a black, form-fitting evening coat, cream silk knee breeches and embroidered waistcoat, and pristine white linen and lace.

He was not outstandingly handsome. And he was no more than two or three inches taller than she, Lauren was surprised to discover. Yet there was an aura of confident vitality about him that gave the illusion of extraordinarily attractive good looks. His face was tanned and good-humored, and his gray eyes smiled with some inner light.

He was the sort of man whose acquaintance she should avoid at all costs, Lauren thought in the few seconds that elapsed after Lady Mannering’s introduction, while Lord Ravensberg bowed and she curtsied. Even if she had not been a witness to his unseemly behavior in the park, she surely would have sensed the indefinable air of raw masculinity that he somehow exuded. There was something very different indeed about him from the eminently respectable parade of gentlemen Wilma and Lord Sutton had been presenting to her thus far this evening. She felt an unexpected wave of amusement as she realized that her aunt and uncle and Joseph were bringing their attention back to her and looking concerned—as if she were a green girl who was quite incapable of taking care of herself. And Lord Sutton was approaching purposefully from a short distance away with a portly, earnest-looking young man—as if she were a dull, aging creature quite without the charms to attract any gentleman who was not coerced.

Viscount Ravensberg had not been coerced.

“My lord,” she murmured.

“Miss Edgeworth? Charmed.” The smile lurking in his eyes spread to the rest of his face to reveal very white teeth and laugh lines at the outer corners of his eyes. Lauren revised her first impression that he was not particularly handsome. “I begged for the introduction since I simply had to get close enough to discover if your gown really does match the color of your eyes. It does.”

Lauren fanned her cheeks slowly—the ballroom was surely overwarm even though both sets of French windows leading out onto the balcony on the other side of the ballroom were wide open. Did he expect her to blush and simper at such blatant gallantry—when she had heard very different words on his lips last week? Come on, you buggers.

Joseph was purposefully clearing his throat.

“May I hope you are free to dance the next set with me, Miss Edgeworth?” Viscount Ravensberg asked while Lady Mannering smiled benevolently at his side.

“I was about to escort my cousin to the refreshment room,” Joseph said smoothly but with a firm edge of dismissal in his tone. He offered his arm for her hand. “Miss Edgeworth is thirsty and needs a rest from dancing. Lauren?”

But Lord Ravensberg did not look away from her. He raised his eyebrows inquiringly while laughter danced in his eyes. He awaited an answer from her own lips. No true gentleman would have done so. And there was no necessity for her to reply when Joseph had done so for her. She had merely to place her hand on his arm, smile disdainfully, and walk off. It was a quite unexceptionable way in which to deal with unmannerly pretension. But she did none of those things.

Lord Ravensberg had not been coerced. He had complimented her eyes, however foolish the flattery. And he was undeniably attractive.

“Thank you, Joseph,” she heard herself saying, “but perhaps I have the energy to dance one more set before taking refreshments.”

She stepped forward, set her hand on the viscount’s sleeve, and allowed him to lead her onto the open space of the dance floor. Would she have done so if Joseph had not spoken up to protect her? Or if Lord Sutton had not been bringing her another partner? She did not know. But she did realize suddenly, now that it was too late to change her mind, that the next set was to be a waltz—the intimate dance, still considered slightly scandalous by the highest sticklers, that she had once considered wondrously romantic. But that had been when she had danced it with Neville at her wedding eve ball. And never before or since.

“Such a grave look,” the viscount murmured as she turned to face him. “ Are you tired? Would you prefer after all that I escort you to the refreshment room?”

“No. Thank you.” It was strange how such a small rebellion had lifted her spirits. And she was actually glad that the dance was to be a waltz. Perhaps she could lay to rest more than a few ghosts tonight.

The orchestra began playing the opening bars. Lauren raised her left hand to his shoulder and set her other hand in his. She could feel his right hand come firmly to rest against the arch of her back. His height made their positioning seem more intimate than it had felt with the taller Neville. She could not easily avoid gazing into his face. She could not avoid feeling his intense physical presence. She could feel the warm strength of both his hands. She could smell the subtle musk of his cologne. She drew a slow breath and looked into his eyes.

They smiled warmly, knowingly back into her own—as if he felt her discomfort and was amused by it. A dangerous man indeed, she thought. She had never been comfortable with such men. She had avoided them all her life.

He led her into the waltz.

For a while the bitter memories of her wedding eve ball and the day that had followed it threatened to overwhelm her. She calmed herself by deliberately counting her steps and concentrating on the rhythm of the music and the movement of her feet. But it did not take long to realize that she was partnered by a man who was an accomplished dancer. It was easy—it felt almost like second nature—to fit her steps to his lead and to follow the graceful, twirling pattern he set about the perimeter of the ballroom floor. It was easy to feel comfortable with his height, to appreciate the fact that she could look over his shoulder and see her surroundings.

She had not enjoyed the evening so far—and that was an understatement. But she had consoled herself with the knowledge that her appearance at such a squeeze had served a useful function. Now, suddenly, unexpectedly, she was enjoying herself. The lavish floral displays and the gowns of the other lady guests all merged into a glorious kaleidoscope of color. The candles in the chandeliers became swirling bands of light. And there was something undeniably exhilarating about waltzing with a man who not only knew the steps but also surely felt the magic of the dance as she did.

But that thought brought Lauren firmly back to reality after several minutes. She was dancing about Lady Mannering’s ballroom in the arms of a stranger whom she had first seen just a week ago in shocking, scandalous circumstances. Joseph had tried to prevent her from dancing with him this evening. Was the viscount not respectable, then, despite his title and his presence at a ton ball? Had her first instinct about him been correct? Was he a rake?

Part of her did not care, was even surprisingly titillated by the possibility, in fact. But it was a part of herself with which she was thoroughly unfamiliar, a part of herself that must be reined in.

“Do you attend many balls, my lord?” She concentrated her mind upon making polite conversation and setting some sort of safe social distance between them. “I must confess this is my first this year.”

“No, I do not,” he replied. “And yes, I know.”

She was indignant at the brevity of his answer. Did he know nothing about polite conversation? And then she was struck by its oddity. What did he mean— yes, I know. If he did not attend many balls himself, how did he know that she had attended none?

“It is a grand squeeze,” she said, trying again, clinging to clichй. “Lady Mannering must be well pleased with the success of all her efforts.”

“Successful indeed.” His laughing eyes did not waver from hers.

“The flowers and other decorations are both lovely and tasteful,” she said, laboring onward. “Do you not agree, my lord?”

“I have not looked to see, but I will take your word for it.”

He was flirting with her, she realized in sudden shock. He was implying that he had eyes for no one but her. And indeed, he was matching action to implication. She felt an uncomfortable and unfamiliar rush of physical awareness—and then indignation again.

“Now it is your turn to choose a topic of conversation,” she said, her voice deliberately disdainful to mask her discomfort.

He laughed softly. “A man does not need to converse when he is dancing with a beautiful woman,” he said. “He can be content merely to feel. To indulge all his five senses to the full. Conversation is a mere distraction.”

It was not just the outrageous words that made her heart beat faster. It was the way they were spoken. Softly. In a low, velvet voice that wrapped itself about her as if she were somehow naked to its touch. As if the two of them were alone together in the ballroom—or perhaps somewhere altogether more private.

And then suddenly they were alone and in relative darkness. She had not noticed that they were dancing close to the French windows until he had twirled her right through them and they were alone—or almost so—on the balcony beyond the candlelight.

Lauren was shocked to the depths of her soul.

“And light can be a distraction too,” he said, tightening his hand at her waist so that for a moment she became even more aware of his nearness and feared that her bosom would brush against his chest. His head dipped closer to her own as he spoke so that she felt the warmth of his breath kiss her cheek. “As can crowds of people.”

How dared he! She had been quite right to suspect . . . No gentleman . . .

But he had not stopped dancing, and with one more twirl they were back in the ballroom, having entered it through the other French windows less than a minute after leaving it. The withering setdown that was forming on her lips died unspoken as she met his laughing eyes and was once more caught up in the magic of the dance with a virile, attractive partner. Her little rebellion was proving undeniably enjoyable, she admitted ruefully to herself. He was a practiced charmer, of course. Lauren Edgeworth was not the sort of person with whom men flirted. She never had been even when she had been young and happy.

Now for the first time in her life she was being flirted with. And it felt rather pleasant—provided she did not for a moment allow herself to be beguiled by it.

She did not attempt any further conversation. Neither did he.

When the waltz was over, Viscount Ravensberg offered his arm to escort her back to her own party.

“I will not suggest leading you to the refreshment room, Miss Edgeworth,” he said, the laughter in his voice now as well as his eyes, “even though I daresay you are very thirsty by now. Your family would not approve. They can scarce wait for you to return to their midst so that they can inform you that you have just risked your reputation by waltzing with London’s most notorious rakehell.”

“And have I?” she asked him.

“Waltzed with a rakehell? Oh, undoubtedly,” he murmured.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said politely when he had returned her to Aunt Sadie’s side. She regarded him with deliberate, cool hauteur. He was not even ashamed of his own reputation?

“The pleasure was all mine, Miss Edgeworth,” he told her, and before she could realize his intent, he had possessed himself of the hand she had just removed from his sleeve and raised it to his lips. Her hand was gloved, but even so the gesture seemed starkly, shockingly intimate. She resisted the urge to snatch away her hand as if it had been scalded and so draw unwelcome attention to herself. There was nothing so very improper about such a gesture, after all.

And then he was gone—not just from her side, but from the ballroom itself. She watched him go with considerable relief—and with a strange, unwilling awareness that the rest of the evening was going to seem very flat indeed.

Perhaps even the rest of her life, she thought with uncharacteristic hyperbole.