An Improper Suitor Read online

  Meanwhile, she waited for him to get her a drink. She hoped he would not choose something as insipid as ratafia, a drink she loathed. It always seemed to attach itself to her tongue like a burr, with a sweet fuzzy insistence.

  She grew impatient. Of course her impatience meant nothing. Her throat was dry, that was all.

  She thought she caught a glimpse of him returning to her corner, but was distracted as Mrs Wadswith, her hostess, approached her. Julia could not help but marvel at the Clarence Blue gown Mrs Wadswith was wearing, the model for the ballroom. She was accompanied by a young officer in a dark-green uniform with black facings. He had a pleasant boyish appearance, with wavy straw-coloured hair and a smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose. His boyish appearance contrasted strongly with the glinting medals that marked him a war hero.

  ‘May I present Captain Neave, Miss Swifton? He has expressed a particular desire to be acquainted with you.’

  Captain Neave bowed. ‘I’m delighted to meet you. I’ve been hoping to have the pleasure of a dance since the moment I entered the ballroom, but alas, I’ve had no opportunity to be presented.’

  ‘Faradiddle,’ said Julia, laughing at the extravagant complement.

  ‘On the contrary,’ he said, as Mrs Wadswith moved away, satisfied that she had performed her duty. ‘Seeking your acquaintance is the only sensible thing I have done this evening,’ he said. He leaned forward. ‘Everything else is faradiddle.’ He waved his hand to indicate the flounces and the rose festoons.

  A chuckle escaped Julia’s lips. She smothered it. ‘It’s too bad of you,’ she said. ‘When it was our hostess who was kind enough to introduce you to me.’

  ‘True, and I will be eternally grateful to her.’ The musicians struck up a new dance. ‘Shall we?’ he said.

  She needed that drink. But on the other hand, the less she saw of Lord Thorwynn, the better. ‘Certainly,’ she said, placing her hand in his.

  As he led her to the dance floor she made a concerted effort not to look back to see if Thorwynn had returned.

  Thorwynn swore and looked down at the two glasses of champagne. She had already found someone to dance with. Devil take it, couldn’t she have waited?

  Then the green uniform registered, and the unmistakable sand-coloured hair. Just to be sure, in case he was imagining things, he waited until her partner turned in the dance and he could see the man’s face. Lionel’s blood ran cold. It seemed his luck was out. The man he had spent three years of his life trying to forget had appeared. And, to make matters worse, he was now dancing with Miss Swifton.

  He tossed down both glasses of champagne. He disposed of the two glasses on the first surface he could find, and strode off to the card room, in search of Benny.

  Benny was in the middle of a game of whist, and the counters that surrounded him indicated that he was on the winning side.

  Lionel bent over him and murmured in his ear. ‘I think you need to come with me,’ he said. ‘There’s something that needs our urgent attention.’

  Benny looked up absently from his game. ‘Sorry, Thor, I’m in the middle of a winning streak. Can’t stop now.’

  ‘Even,’ murmured Lionel, ‘if it’s about Neave?’

  Benny looked up sharply, then surveyed the players round the table.

  ‘I’ll join you in a minute, Thorwynn, give me a few minutes to finish.’

  Lionel nodded, and stalked back to the ballroom. He found a hidden corner from which he could observe Miss Swifton dancing with Neave. His eyes remained fixed on them, noting every move, every nuance. He took note as Neave bent towards her, smiling, saw her laugh in response. His mouth tightened in disapproval. She lavished the same kind of attention on any man she danced with. She laughed with Neave as she had laughed with Benny. But whereas Benny was an honourable person who would not harm a fly, Neave was—

  Bitterness rose up in him as he recalled those weeks after he had returned from the Victory at Waterloo. He had tried to tell his commanding officers about Neave. He had made a cake of himself instead. It took a naive fool to think anyone would care enough to listen, especially when someone was as well connected as Neave. Besides, the war with Napoleon was over. Napoleon was defeated, for the last time. Inflated with the victory, indifferent to the testimony of a minor officer, a mere lieutenant, they had dismissed him. They had given him his honours, his share of the prize money and a promotion. And they had sent him on his way, patting him on the head and urging him not to make trouble.

  The sight of Neave brought everything back. The sense of loss, the pain, and the utter humiliation of his pathetic attempt to bring Neave to justice.

  He abandoned his post in the corner and went in search of something stiff and strong.

  When he returned, four glasses of brandy later, the cotillion was drawing to a close. He held a brandy in one hand, and a new glass of champagne in the other. Lionel pushed his way through the jostling crowds and waited for Miss Swifton and her partner to walk off the dance floor. He blocked their way. Bowing to Neave without looking in his direction, he handed the glass to Miss Swifton. ‘I brought refreshments,’ he said.

  His sole goal was to draw her away with him, away from Neave.

  Her eyes flashed. She did not like his interference. But she was too much of a lady to make a scene. She thanked Neave graciously and allowed Lionel to lead her to the side of the ballroom, a space marginally quieter than the rest.

  She spoke quietly, still smiling, so the gossips would not notice her anger. ‘You have no right to separate me from my acquaintance that way.’ She had spent her life free of the meddling of either brother or father. She did not need a stranger to hover over her. He had misinterpreted her willingness to help him as an invitation to become part of her life. Nothing could be further from her mind.

  He shrugged, determined to ride it out. ‘I agree that I have no right. However, I would be doing you a disservice if I did not. I wished to warn you: Captain Neave is not all that he appears. I think you would do well to be – careful.’

  To his chagrin, the words came out slightly slurred. He normally held his liquor well, was in fact, only a moderate drinker. But the sight of Neave after three years of avoidance had made him lose count.

  He downed the glass of champagne.

  She examined him closely, a frown lining her brow. He could not help thinking the lines resembled the flounces on the wall. Lines that swayed and dipped. ‘You’re foxed,’ she said, disgust sharpening her voice.

  ‘If I were foxed, Miss Swifton, you would certainly know it. It takes quite a few drinks to get me foxed.’ His speech was perhaps a little slow, but what of it? He was not in a hurry.

  Certainly not in a hurry to leave her with Captain Neave. ‘Really?’ she said, her lip curling upwards. ‘Well it certainly looks like you’ve had them.’

  His eyes narrowed. Her tone was angry, accusing, and he reacted with anger of his own. Couldn’t she see he was trying to help her? ‘You need not concern yourself with this matter. I am quite capable of judging how much I need to drink.’ He took a deep breath. It would not do for him to quarrel with her. There were many eyes observing them. He pasted a smile on his face. It felt lopsided, for some reason. The whole evening was turning out to be lopsided. Where the devil was Benny?

  ‘Perhaps we can discuss this elsewhere,’ he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘I will call upon you tomorrow morning and explain the situation.’

  She pasted a smile on her face. ‘It is kind of you to be concerned about me, but I can assure you I can take care of myself. Although I appreciate your advice, I am not in the habit of consulting with strangers about my actions.’

  She took a step away. He could not prevent her leaving, not without causing a stir, and certainly he could not hold her back physically.

  ‘As you wish,’ he said, congratulating himself on his calm. ‘Won’t call on you if you don’t wish it. But at least let me tell you something about him. Neave is a rake—’
/>   She laughed. Of all the things he had expected, he had not imagined that she would laugh. ‘Isn’t it a case of the kettle calling the frying pan black?’

  Her words struck him like a hammer. He struggled for words under the onslaught, but found none. She smiled and curtseyed.

  ‘I hope we’ve solved your problem with Miss Neville in a satisfactory way. We’ll know by tomorrow if our story has been accepted by Society. Meanwhile, I hope you’ll refrain from treating me with a familiarity that is inappropriate.’

  She walked away, leaving him to deal with a wave of emotions that rolled over him. He felt as if he waded in water. The thick air of the ballroom stifled him, and he started to loosen his neck cloth. Then he caught sight of his mother across the ballroom. Better wait until he’d taken his leave. She would probably rearrange the damn thing. He schooled his face into a mask of indifference, and sauntered slowly towards her.

  ‘Leaving so soon, Lionel?’ His mother raised a disapproving brow, while one of the old witches surrounding her – he had no idea who she was – raised her quizzing glass to fix her glance on him.

  ‘I have other engagements, Mother.’

  ‘Call on me tomorrow, then.’

  He smiled, and bowed. ‘I will.’ She needed a full report, and he was obliged to give it. If their strategy to stem the gossip had failed, they needed to discuss a new approach.

  It took him forever to reach the entrance. He paused in the doorway to lean on the doorframe and take a few breaths of the pleasantly cool air. A hand landed on his shoulder. He swirled round and peered into his friend’s face.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Benny. Terrible timing, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You’re foxed,’ said Benny. ‘It won’t do, you know, not at a Society ball.’

  ‘That’s what she said,’ he muttered. ‘The part about being foxed. Not the part about the ball.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Benny. ‘I thought we pulled the whole thing off nicely. I told the story to everyone in the card room, with some embellishments of my own. But I think it will be exceedingly hard for anyone to pin the Neville incident on you.’

  Lionel tried to remember what the Neville incident was about. The name certainly rang a bell.

  He thought of Miss Swifton, turning her back to him.

  She would dance again with Neave, he was sure of it. It all came down to Neave, as always. His life seemed to be haunted by him. ‘It’s Neave again. He’s decided to attach himself to Miss Swifton.’ He turned his head and stared into the street. It blazed with lanterns that floated to and fro in the wind. He followed the motion of one of them, back and forth, feeling his eyes blur. ‘And, as you know only too well, whenever Neave touches something, he destroys it.’ He clenched his fingers into a fist. ‘I won’t let him do it this time, Benny.’

  CHAPTER 5

  Julia surveyed herself in the mirror. She looked different today. Her brown-green eyes sparkled, her cheeks flushed, and her mouth curled upwards of its own volition. Even her hair seemed to have an extra sheen to it, with little fiery pinpoints dancing in the bright daylight. The excitement of the ball last night lingered. She had enjoyed the company of not one, but three gentlemen, all of them appealing in their own way.

  Remarkable, that during two whole seasons of balls and routs she had not found a single gentleman who had not caused her to gaze out of the window, longing for escape. Once the novelty wore off, she realized that the balls were endless repetitions of the same dances, glasses of ratafia, and uninspired conversation. Last year she had refused to attend any but a very select few, those thrown by particular friends of her grandmother that she favoured. She far preferred to attend musical soirées, or the few old-fashioned salons that the older émigrés from France still held from time to time. The debates there were lively, at least. Though, of course, there was an inconvenience to it, too. Some of the old roués made her the object of their attentions, since she was the only lady under forty who attended.

  But last night, she had actually found Mrs Wadswith’s ball pleasurable. She relished every minute talking to Lord Benedict, and she found Captain Neave’s boyish chatter amusing.

  To her annoyance, each time she tried to conjure up either gentleman, she saw Lord Thorwynn’s face. What was more irksome, she saw him as he had looked when she had fired that passing shot at him. She knew very little about rakes, having made a point of avoiding them. However, she always vaguely thought that men liked being thought rakish. She did not expect that he would be genuinely wounded by the accusation.

  She must have mistaken the matter. The candlelight had misled her, flickering in reflection when their glances met. In any case, there was no point in pondering that topic.

  She righted a curl that had come loose and went to the window. Captain Neave had invited her for a drive in the Park. He would be here any moment, and she had not ridden with a gentleman for a long time. The day had started with a crystal clear blue sky, a good sign, surely, and no clouds threatened on the horizon. The smell of oak blossoms hung in the air.

  A shiny two-seat phaeton clattered to a halt in front of the townhouse. Neave swung down nonchalantly, not waiting for a footman to appear. He ran his fingers through his locks, and pulled down his waistcoat. Apparently satisfied that his appearance was adequate, he strolled towards the townhouse.

  She moved away from the window. After all, it was hardly appropriate for him to discover her watching him.

  Julia received Neave very properly in the drawing-room with Lady Bullfinch present, a major feat in itself. She refused initially, saying she did not believe in such nonsense. If she couldn’t trust her own granddaughter for a few minutes alone in the drawing-room with a gentleman, then she had no business letting Julia go anywhere. Julia had finally convinced her that it was not a matter of trust, but a matter of appearances.

  ‘He might get the wrong idea,’ said Julia.

  Gran snorted, but agreed to act as chaperon.

  Now, however, Julia was faced with a new problem.

  ‘But how is my maid to accompany us when it is a two-seat carriage?’ said Julia.

  ‘I believe it is perfectly proper to drive in Hyde Park in a high perch open carriage,’ replied Neave. ‘Now a closed carriage would be a different matter,’ he said, with a smile. The dimples in his cheeks emphasized his boyish appearance. He turned to her grandmother. ‘However, if Lady Bullfinch finds the idea objectionable, I will accept her judgment.’

  Grannie would not object to such an outing any more than she would object to finding Julia rolling on the floor with a gentleman with half her clothes missing. She frequently recounted stories of her own youth when she had indulged in precisely such liberties.

  Julia sighed and looked at her.

  ‘I suppose’ – said Lady Bullfinch, at her most arrogant – ‘I suppose that I will give my consent. Though I can’t say I like these newfangled high perch phaetons. I am convinced they cannot possibly stay upright. How anyone manages to control them I cannot understand. And I can’t help but think that anyone who chooses to drive them is rather reckless.’

  ‘I assure you, Lady Bullfinch, one cannot be reckless driving at the fashionable hour in Hyde Park. It is far too crowded. And the phaetons are quite safe.’ When she did not object further, he rose and bowed. ‘Thank you, Lady Bullfinch, for granting your permission.’ He smiled and kissed her hand gracefully. Then he extended his elbow to Julia. ‘Miss Swifton. Are you ready?’

  She had thought her grandmother facetious when she talked about the high perch phaetons, but as they set into motion, she realized there was something reckless about them.

  ‘I must confess,’ she said, enjoying the sensation, ‘I’ve never ridden so high off the ground before. I suppose riding on the box of a post must be the only similar thing.’

  Captain Neave threw her a quick smile, then returned to the delicate task of manoeuvring the team through the thronging street. She studied his gloved hands as he handled the horses. His technique was g
ood, though perhaps rather careless. ‘I’m delighted to be the first to provide you with such an experience,’ said Neave. ‘I hope you’re not one of those giddy ladies who are afraid of heights.’

  ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘In fact, you’d better not get me too used to riding a high perch, or I’ll be asking for a turn with the ribbons before you know it.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to tutor you,’ he said, casting her an admiring look. ‘I like a lady with spirit.’

  ‘I’m thought quite skilled with a four-in-hand,’ she said. ‘Our coachman Evans was much admired in his youth for his skill. When I was eight I kept begging him to teach me his technique. He refused for a while, but I was so persistent he eventually agreed. I’ve driven a two-horse phaeton, but I’m afraid my grandmother won’t approve of me buying a high perch.’

  ‘Understandably,’ said Captain Neave. ‘I’m sure she’s concerned for your safety.’

  ‘Well, she needn’t be. I never take on something I can’t handle.’

  As they reached the park, three gentlemen-about-town came riding up to them. Although they were in their late twenties, similar in age to Captain Neave, all three of them were dressed as the Pinkest of Pinks, their clothes conspicuously fashionable, their collars riding high up their cheeks, and their cravats puffed out in front of them like whipped cream. They surrounded the phaeton. One of them, a tall man with icy, sky-blue eyes, heavily pomaded hair, and an elaborate waist coat of bright orange and gold, leered up at Julia, his eyes running down her body and resting on her right ankle, which protruded slightly from under her gown. She quickly tucked the offending ankle away. He noted the gesture and smiled mockingly.