His Heart's Delight Page 3

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  Christiana listened to the introductory notes of music that called them to attention and closed her eyes. She loved this air. The music made her feel as though she could dance with the lightness of a fairy. Even with Peter as her partner.

  “Lord Morgan asked you to dance, Christy?” Peter Wilton moved into the first figure, only half attending to the steps.

  Christiana pulled him in the right direction and tossed an apologetic smile at the couple he almost collided with. “Pay attention to the figures, Peter, or you will step on Joanna and offend everyone in the room.”

  He returned the smile, which took the edge off her criticism, and concentrated. Silence followed for a few moments. When they had moved through the entire figure twice, she nodded her approval and answered his question. “Do you think I asked him to dance? Of course he invited me, though I think he was ordered to by his grandmother.”

  “Nothing romantic about that is there, Christy?”

  She took his arm and they began the promenade, which would keep them together for the next few moments. “Exactly. I think I might have been offended if I were looking for anything more than a dancing partner. As it is, a man honoring the whim of his grandmother suits me perfectly.”

  They danced in silence until the promenade brought them arm in arm once more and Peter picked up the conversation. “Thing is, he’s years older than me. Or Richard for that matter.”

  “He is not so very old, Peter. I would say he has not yet reached his thirtieth year.” She had done her best to contain her curiosity, but Peter would persist in talking about him. “Who is he, Peter? From where do you know him?”

  Peter looked panicked for a moment. “Can we speak of it later? I seem to have forgotten the next step.”

  Oh, he does make me laugh. Christiana turned it into a sigh and let her partner concentrate. If curiosity was her besetting sin, patience was a virtue she was attempting to cultivate. Perhaps she could learn more about Lord Morgan later.

  Christiana made an effort not to compare Peter’s dancing with that of Lord Morgan’s. However, as the set progressed, it was clear that the two men did not view dancing in the same way. For Peter it was an exercise, rather like running a race. For Lord Morgan it was part of a courtship ritual that teased and tempted and only rarely allowed the couple to touch. Each touch became a tender gesture that had made her want to cling a moment longer. The whole accompanied by a smile of such singular appeal that it made her efforts at flirting seem cow-handed.

  The dance might be one of her favorites and Peter a lifelong friend, still Christiana was vastly relieved when the set ended. And she had already promised him another after supper. She suppressed a groan. Well, he did indeed need the practice. She looked around for Joanna and saw her sister being escorted in another direction, while listening to her partner with rapt attention.

  Christiana took Peter’s arm and led him from the ballroom. “It is almost time for supper, is it not?”

  “Oh, yes! An excellent notion.”

  Peter’s enthusiasm was exactly what she’d expected. He had the usual appetite of a still-growing young man and Christiana knew if she was willing to share him with the lobster patties and sweets she could learn what Peter knew of Lord Morgan.

  The doors to the dining room were open. Even though supper had not been announced, a large group had already discovered the buffet.

  They moved along the serving table with Peter taking something from every platter: lobster patties, a bit of duck sausage, and some poached fish. Christiana admired the variety of dishes and selected more sparingly.

  She hurried Peter through the sweets, anxious to find one of the small tables for two free, so she could speak with him privately. Unable to decide between the cakes and jellies, he grabbed one of each and followed her with a longing backward glance. “Be seated here with me, Peter, and answer my questions.”

  He swallowed something whole, cleared his throat and asked, “What questions?”

  “Lord Morgan. How long have you been acquainted? What is he lord of?”

  “Oh, the Marquis of Straeford’s son? Not exactly a friend, you know. The thing is, you actually were the first to introduce us. I’m certain that was the first time he has ever heard my name.”

  Christy reminded herself how often Richard had said Peter was a gifted observer of his fellow man. But Peter also understood things in only the most literal sense. She tried again. “Peter, dear, tell me what you know about him from watching him play.”

  “A cool one. You could never tell what he holds by looking at his face.” He warmed to the subject. “Christy, even when he wins, his expression does not change. One never knows what is going through his mind.”

  In gambling that might be an admirable trait. It was not, however, a quality one looked for in a potential friend. “He is a gamester then?”

  “One of the best. But he only does it for pleasure. He is not one of those who makes his living at the tables.” Peter paused. “I do think it must have been all of ten years since the King raised his father from baron to Marquis of Straeford. No need to worry about money there, even if he is not the heir.”

  “A second son?” Not that it mattered. She was merely curious.

  “Yes,” Peter said slowly. “Not married.” He seemed to be debating further disclosures.

  Christy wanted to hear it all. “What else, Peter, you cannot turn prudish on me now.”

  “I understand from one friend who heard it from a friend of his, that Lord Morgan’s been told to find a wife this Season.”

  Whoever believed that men did not gossip as much as women had never talked with one. Nevertheless, the possibility that he was looking for a match was not what she wanted to hear. “Are you certain?”

  “Yeeesss.”

  His reply was several syllables long and Christy decided he was not certain at all.

  “Thing is, his father is ailing, most likely at death’s door. That I know, for the Earl of Westbourne himself mentioned it. The marquis wants to be sure his son is leg-shackled before he passes on.”

  Leg-shackled. It was a phrase Christy detested. She bit back a reproach. “Why should Lord Morgan need to find a wife, if he is not the heir?”

  Peter shrugged, then realized where the conversation was heading. “Why do you care, Christy?”

  Christy sighed. “I am looking for someone who will remember our dance even when the cards are good.”

  “Oh. Not Lord Morgan then, Christy. Cards are more important to him than the dance floor. Whoever he courts will have to accept that gaming is in his blood and not expect him to dance attendance on her.”

  Wonderful, Christy thought with a rare show of petulance. Cross Lord Morgan off her list of possible escorts. She might be willing to share her true love with the army, the cause was noble enough, the greater good of the country depended on men like Richard. But if she was to find someone who would be willing to dance with her and escort her to supper at balls such as this, then she very much wanted him to recall her presence.

  Lord Morgan Braedon was obviously not that man. She had best look elsewhere for her temporary beau.

  I am not disappointed, she told herself. And believed it.

  Three

  “Christiana, what have you done!” Mrs. Lambert burst into the bedroom, waving a newspaper as though it were a much-used handkerchief.

  Christiana heard Joanna sigh but she felt a moment of true panic. Was it news from Portugal? On a relieved sigh of her own, she realized that was not at all likely. Even her mother would not hold her responsible for the army and its failings.

  Apparently a quiet morning was too much to hope for, even the day after a ball. Life had been anything but peaceful since their arrival. Christiana longed for one uninterrupted hour to drink chocolate with her sister in peace. But tranquillity was not Mama’s style. If she could manufacture a crisis, she would. Today’s drama was obviously under way.

  “Is that the morning paper, Ma
ma? Joanna and I have not seen it. We have not been below stairs yet.” She pulled off her cap and ran her hand through her loosely braided hair to make the point. “Sally has just brought our chocolate, and we were debating the best way to spend such a beautiful day.” The paper could be read later if Mama could be distracted from this morning’s irritation.

  “Christy is anxious to find a ribbon the exact color of her new gown.” Joanna spoke around an unladylike yawn. “And I would very much like to have Peter escort us to the exhibit I learned of last night. Would you care to join—”

  “You will most likely spend the day refuting this idiotic gossip.” Mrs. Lambert handed the paper to her daughter. “How could you, Christiana!” The last was given in the vexed tone that marked most of Mrs. Lambert’s conversation with her youngest daughter.

  With a puzzled look at Joanna, Christiana took the paper from her mother’s shaking fingers and the two of them read the few lines they were directed to:

  Lord M————B————, danced but once last night and that was with the lovely Miss L————. Could it be he has already found the match his esteemed parent hopes for?

  Christiana bit the inside of her lip and tried not to smile. “Mama, it is nothing more than gossip.”

  Her mother tapped her foot and waited.

  Joanna tried. “Mama, Christy can not control who Lord Morgan invites to dance!”

  “That does nothing to relieve my irritation.” Mrs. Lambert turned to Christiana. “It is true we are only recently arrived and wish to be noticed. But not in this way. This is Joanna’s Season. And a year late as it is, she has no time to waste. She is the one society should be noticing. You, my girl, have made your choice, as you have so pointedly told everyone who will listen.”

  “Mama, that is not true. I have honored yours and Father’s wish that I tell no one of my understanding with Richard.”

  “It is not an understanding until we permit it!” With a sharp indrawn breath Mrs. Lambert turned to Joanna. “Get up, get dressed, and come to the green salon. There will be callers today.”

  She turned to her other daughter. “Christiana, I will not tolerate behavior that will jeopardize our vouchers for Almack’s. You will spend your day reading improving works. I will tell Lord Morgan, should he call, that you are not well.”

  Both her children nodded and she swept from the room, closing the door sharply behind her.

  “Oh, Joanna, London has not changed Mama one whit, has it?” Christiana sighed. “I was hoping that the shopping and society might distract her from my shortcomings.”

  “And now you will be trapped in your room all day.” Joanna scrambled from the bed and headed for the dressing room. “There will be no shopping together and you will not be allowed to see the art exhibit.”

  “It is almost a relief.”

  Joanna stopped at the dressing room door and looked back at her sister in some confusion.

  “You see, for a moment I was certain there was news from Portugal and that Richard was in danger.”

  “Oh dear.” Joanna came back and gave her sister a comforting hug. “He is safe. He has only been there for a few weeks. And it is too soon for the fighting to begin. It will be weeks before there are any battles.”

  “Very well. I will allow you to convince me that Richard is safe for today and perhaps even for tomorrow.”

  Joanna went back to the dressing room and Christiana sat in the slipper chair near the fire.

  “There are worse things than spending my day indoors, Jo. I can write in my journal. There is so much more to remember than what I wrote last night.”

  Joanna emerged with three dresses, which she draped over a chair. “I could barely stay awake long enough to undress and you stayed up to write in your journal?”

  “I only wrote a few lines.” But fatigue had not been the problem. The music and the dancing had left her wide awake and too restless to settle down and find mere words that would do the evening justice. Christiana hopped from the bed and picked up a white lawn gown washed through with the palest pink and trimmed with roses about the hem and sleeves. “Here, wear this one.” She shook the wrinkles out and placed it carefully on the bed after she smoothed the covers. “It is above all your favorite gown and your rose-colored pelisse will complement it perfectly.”

  “Christy, it will never take you all day to describe the ball.”

  “I suspect that I will have time to dress, finish my entry, and read the rest of today’s gossip before Mama recalls that the dowager duchess invited me to call.”

  Joanna shook her head. “How is it that you find your way out of every punishment Mama hands out?”

  Christiana grinned. “A lifetime of practice.”

  “The gossip column is hardly improving literature, Christy. What if she asks what you have been reading?” Joanna untied her nightcap and began brushing her hair. Christiana took the brush from Joanna’s hand and began arranging her sister’s curls, sprinkling in the lilac-scented powder that was her sister’s favorite.

  “Joanna, the only problem with having a sister who has never broken a rule in her life is that you worry about the most nonsensical things.” The scented powder made her sister’s hair easier to manage and Christiana curled it around her face carefully so as not to pull it too hard. “I remember the last sermon she pressed on me and will quote it freely if she asks for proof.”

  Satisfied with her efforts as a hairdresser, Christiana put the brush down and stood back admiring her sister’s blond loveliness. Joanna was quiet and reserved; that was the only reason people did not notice her at first. It was unfortunate that Christiana herself possessed neither of those virtues.

  The truth was she had inherited her mother’s flamboyant personality, without her inclination to dramatic complaint, she hoped. Joanna was much more like their father. Of her two parents Christiana would infinitely prefer a day on horseback with Papa to a day shopping with Mama. And she did adore shopping.

  “By the time Joanna tied on her pink kid slippers, Christiana had convinced her that she would not be wasting the day in her room. Joanna hurried down to the green salon as the first knock on the door sounded.

  Christiana ran through the connecting door and into her own bedroom, which faced the front of the house. Drawing the damask drapes, she peeked through the sheer material that blocked eyes but not light from her room. The street was full of carriages, moving as quickly as the congestion would allow. Several were drawn in front of their town house. One matron and her daughter hurried up the steps.

  She sighed. Despite Mama’s criticism she had kept her commitment to Richard a closely held secret. Why had she ever promised Papa that until she returned from London there would be no formal engagement?

  Why did he find it so hard to credit that a lifetime of friendship had grown into something more? There were moments when she wondered if Papa entirely approved of Richard. That was foolish! Of course he approved. The Wiltons and Lamberts had been neighbors for generations and friends almost as long. When Richard had asked to speak to him, Papa had not seemed surprised. He’d maintained it was inevitable that someday proximity and friendship between the Wiltons and Lamberts would lead to a closer attachment.

  Christiana did not like the idea that their connection was “inevitable” or “expected.” She longed for the day when they married and she could join Richard.

  She had even decided that if, heaven forbid, the war persisted she would join him in Europe. She would follow the drum. She would not be the first to show her devotion that way.

  In the meantime she needed to find someone as unconcerned with courtship as she was. Then Mama could not berate her for stealing attention from Joanna. She thought again of Lord Morgan. He would have been perfect. He danced beautifully and could flirt with such skill that all other thoughts fled her brain. One glance across the Westbournes’ ballroom had convinced her of that.

  But if he were, as Peter said, seriously searching for a bride then he would n
ot do at all. If his lone dance with her had any significance, then he needed to know that she was not available, but how could she tell him if she had promised not to tell anyone? She sighed again as though one long breath would dispel her quandary.

  Taking a last look at the street below, Christiana could see a gentleman of more mature years climb the front steps, a small nosegay in hand. She leaned a little closer to the window and he must have caught the movement, for he looked in her direction.

  With a little squeal Christiana stepped back into the room. Oh, please do not let him see me gaping like a peagoose. It was the flowers, not the bearer that had caught her attention: a cluster of colorful blossoms, casually arranged, and they reminded her of the time she and Richard had gathered a similar bouquet.

  She drew her wrapper around her, sat at the writing table, and considered what she had written last night. Letters between them might not be permitted yet, but she could pretend. So her journal was written in letter format all of them addressed “Dearest Richard.”

  Do you recall the wildflowers we picked that spring only a few months ago? We sought a flower in every color and I treasure that bouquet to this day. I must tell you that the glory of those flowers is nothing compared to the color that was only part of the thrill of my first London ball.