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"Lud, infant, where do you get your notions? You know Forrest won't
take your money. He certainly won't take money out of the mouths of
babes, or whatever. But if you were to give the money in his name, say, or
let him give it to that veterans' group he supports, then I daresay he'd be
proud to accept."
And Sydney dared hope he'd smile at her again.
Sydney refused to go one step further with the plans until she consulted
the viscount, even if she had to suffer Lady Mayne's knowing looks.
"It's not that I care so much for his approval," she lied, blushing. "I need
to confirm which charity he prefers."
So that evening at the Conklins' ball, during their one dance, a waltz,
Sydney waited for the usual empty pleasantries to pass. She was looking
lovely; he was feeling well. He did not say that she looked like a dancing
flame in her gold gown, that her warmth kindled his blood. She did not
mention that she thought him the most handsome man she'd ever seen in
his formal clothes, that she blushed to think of him out of them.
She appreciated last night's opera; he enjoyed his morning ride. Neither
said how much they wished the other had been there to share the
pleasure. They danced at just the proper distance apart, in spite of their
bodies' aching to touch. They kept the proper social smiles on their faces.
Until Sydney mentioned money.
"My lord," Sydney began.
"Forrest."
She nodded. "My lord Forrest, I have been thinking about the thousand
pounds you lent me."
His hand tightened on her fingers and closed on her waist. Trying to
maintain a smile with his teeth clenched, the viscount ground out,
"Don't."
"But your mother agrees with me."
For the first time in ten years the viscount missed his step and trod on
his partner's toes. "Sorry." Then Sydney found herself being twirled and
swirled across the dance floor and right out the balcony doors. Forrest led
her to the farthest, darkest corner. With any luck no one would find her
body until the servants came to clean up in the morning.
"You haven't even heard our idea," Sydney complained as his fearsome
grip moved to her shoulders. She was glad the shadows hid his scowl.
"Ma'am, every time you get an idea in that pretty little head of yours, I
am slapped or kicked or beaten or poisoned. I am always out of pocket and
out of temper. Add my mother into the brew and I may as well stick my
spoon in the wall now." But his fingers had relaxed on her shoulders.
Actually he was now caressing her skin where the gold tissue gown left her
bare, almost as if he were unaware of what his fingers were doing. Sydney
was very aware.
Her breath coming faster than her thoughts, she stumbled through an
explanation of the ball. Farmers' roofs and family pride mixed with
wine-merchants' bills and Winifred's betrothal. "But it's really for you,
Forrest, so I can give you the money and you can give it to a noble cause.
What do you think?"
"I think," he said, pulling her to his chest, where she filled his arms
perfectly, "that you are the most impossible, pigheaded, pea-brained
female of my experience. And the most wonderful."
He moved to tip her chin up for his kiss, but she was already raising her
face toward him in answer, an answer to all of his questions.
Just as their lips were a breath apart, someone coughed loudly. Forrest
was tired of watching her glide around with every fop and sweaty-palmed
sprig. No more. She was his and he was not going to give her up, not even
for a dance. He turned to scare the insolent puppy away. The fellow could
come back in a year or two, maybe.
The insolent puppy, however, was the Duke of Mayne, and he was
grinning. Forrest decided he liked his father better when he stayed in his
office.
"I've come for my dance with the prettiest gal here," the duke declared,
winking at Sydney.
She chuckled softly, reaching up to straighten the tiara of daisies in her
hair. "Spanish coin, Your Grace. There are hundreds of prettier girls
here."
"Yes, but they all agree with everything I say. You don't. Just like my
Sondra. That's true beauty. Did I ever tell you about& "
The viscount opened the hand that had held Sydney's in parting. He
smiled when he saw the daisy there in his palm and nodded when he
brought it to his lips. She was his. He could wait.
26
Bella of the Ball
« ^ »
t was going to be the best ball of the Season, or Sydney would die
I
trying. She'd likely kill everyone else in the household, too, working so hard
on decorations, foodstuffs, guest lists, the millions of details an
undertaking of this proportion required. Sydney was in her element. The
rest of her friends and family were in dismay.
Finally the invitations were all printed and delivered. General Harlan
Lattimore, Ret., was proud to invite the world, they indicated, to witness
the betrothal of his granddaughter Winifred to Brennan, son of, etc., on
such a date. The engagement would be celebrated at a benefit ball, the
proceeds enriching the War Veterans' Widows and Orphans Fund, with
paid admission at the door and other donations gratefully accepted.
The invitations went out under the general's name, in Winifred's
copperplate, with the duke's frank, at Sydney's instigation, according to
the duchess. Nearly everyone accepted, even the Prince Regent, who
declared it a novel idea and Sydney an original.
Sydney did not have time to be anything but an organizer. There were
measurements and fittings for the rooms as well as the girls. Lists of
guests, lists of supplies, lists of lists. Sydney met with musicians, caterers,
hiring agencies. She heard out Aunt Harriet and took Lady Mayne's
advice. The duchess was delighted, not just that she was preferred over
that clutch-fisted Lady Windham, but that Sydney had such an aptitude.
The minx would make a worthy duchess, if that scrod of a son of hers
would get on with it. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]