A Country Cotillion Read online

  A COUNTRY COTILLION

  Sandra Heath

  Chapter 1

  When young widow Elizabeth French set off for the Duke of Devonshire’s grand January ball with handsome Sir Alexander Norrington, to whom she was about to be betrothed, she had no idea at all that before the ball was over her hitherto reasonably settled existence would have received a very disagreeable jolt. Her life was going to take a very different path from the one at present mapped out, but as Alexander’s town carriage left Oakgrove House, her villa in Kensington, that bitterly cold winter evening in 1814, there was no hint of what the night held in store.

  Elizabeth shivered a little, even though she was enveloped in a fur-lined gray velvet cloak, and beneath her feet there rested a hot brick wrapped in cloth. She had never known cold such as this, and although there had not been any snow as yet, everyone knew that it would come before long. It was being said that if the freezing temperatures continued, the Thames itself would ice over, as it had done several times in the past.

  The carriage left the villa’s curving drive, and entered the narrow tree-lined lane that led to the main London turnpike road. Elizabeth glanced out a little apprehensively, for footpads and highwaymen had been at work in recent weeks. Several of her neighbors had been robbed, and their complaints to the authorities had been strenuous enough to result in an extra patrol of the watch taking place. There hadn’t been any further robberies, but neither had any of the miscreants been arrested, and so she was understandably uneasy until the carriage emerged from the confines of the lane and then turned east along the broad expanse of the highway.

  As the buildings of Kensington village passed by, Elizabeth leaned her head back against the carriage’s brown leather upholstery. She was twenty-four years old, with soft gray eyes, long, dark-blond curls, and a peaches-and-cream complexion. Beneath her cloak her tiny-waisted figure was dainty in a sleeveless apricot satin slip and short-sleeved overgown of shimmering gold-spotted plowman’s gauze. The over-gown was high-waisted, with a drawstring immediately beneath her breasts, and her skirts reached just to her ankles, as was the latest fashion, so that her little golden brocade slippers were always visible.

  Her thick hair was twisted up into a knot from which a single heavy ringlet fell to the nape of her neck, and small curls framed her heart-shaped face. The only jewelry she wore was a pair of exquisite golden earrings given to her by her late parents, who had died in a carriage overturn while she had been far away in Madras, finding out the painful truth about her husband, James French.

  Elizabeth lowered her gaze to the spangled reticule and folded fan lying on her lap. James had begun to intrude a great deal upon her thoughts in recent days, even though his womanizing and increasing cruelty had eventually made their marriage deeply unhappy. It was of their early days together that she found herself thinking most, days when she had been swept off her foolish feet by his dashing golden-haired good looks and devastating charm.

  Oh, what a lover he had been. He had been a master of his art, and she, adoring him so very much, had been an eager and willing pupil. He had awakened her to sensual joys she had not dreamed existed and he made her feel that she was all that mattered in the world. Little fool that she had been, she had believed that the happiness would go on forever, and that they would never cease to love each other as they had in the beginning. She had been taken in, and in the end she had paid the price of her folly, but for a while, a sweet period of ecstasy, she had known the sort of love that many pass through their entire lives without knowing at all.

  Kensington was slipping away behind now, and the carriage was driving on toward Knightsbridge. Elizabeth’s thoughts were not of the Devonshire House ball, but of James, and the casual event that had brought him back into her thoughts. It had been pure chance that had taken her carriage through Hanover Square when she had been on her way to visit her Aunt Avery in Park Lane. When they had first been married, she and James had taken a house in the square, and something made her order the coachman to draw up by the railing of the octagonal garden in the center of Mayfair’s oldest quadrangle.

  The house was now occupied by an eminent lawyer, and like all the others in the square was built of red brick, with three main stories, a basement, and an attic. It stood near the northwest corner, looking south toward George Street and St. George’s Church, where she and James had been married, and it still had the same dark-green door and lion’s head knocker.

  She had gazed at the door, remembering the times when she and James had entered or left, smiling and laughing together. She remembered one morning in particular, the morning when he had gone to East India House in Leadenhall Street, to arrange their passage to Madras. They had awoken very late, and it had been even later before they had eventually gone down to breakfast in the little room overlooking the gardens at the rear of the house. She had worn a pretty pink floral wrap with thick lace spilling from the wrists, and her hair had been brushed loose, just as James had liked it. He was going alone to Leadenhall Street, and so had already been dressed to go out, in an olive-green coat and cream cord breeches. His waistcoat had been made of a particularly stylish oyster brocade, and his voluminous neckcloth had sported a pin with a single, very large pearl. His golden hair had been tousled, for it always defied the efforts of a comb, and his deep-blue eyes had been lazily quizzical as he looked at her across the white-clothed table.

  “Are you sure you wish to remove to faraway Madras?” His voice had been light and soft, with a hint of a Scottish accent.

  “I will go anywhere with you, James.”

  “I do not have to take up this position with the East India Company.”

  “But you wish to.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I wish to.”

  She remembered teasing him a little. “You have a notion to become a nabob, do you not?”

  “I fully intend to, so it is no notion.”

  “Well, I have a notion to become a nabob’s wife, a nabobana, or whatever such ladies are called.”

  “A nabobess, I believe.”

  “That then.”

  He smiled. “You will have Madras society at your feet, my darling.”

  “I will not notice anyone but you.” She had met his eyes then, loving him so much that it was like a pain aching through her.

  “Look at me like that, and I will be obliged to return you promptly to the bed, wench,” he murmured, tossing down his napkin and getting up. “And if that happens, I will be late for my appointment.”

  He came around the table to kiss her. His arms had slipped lovingly around her from behind, and his lips had brushed her cheeks and her hair before he had gone out. She remembered hearing him speak briefly to the butler, who had given him his hat, gloves, and cane. A moment later the carriage had driven away toward distant Leadenhall Street.

  Gazing at the past from the more sober present, Elizabeth had been so lost in thought as she gazed at that remembered Hanover Square door, that she had given quite a start when it had opened, and a tall, elegant gentleman had emerged. He had paused on the step to take his leave of the lawyer whose house it now was, and she had found herself staring once again at the husband she had loved so much, but had now lost forever.

  The gentleman on the doorstep not only wore a green coat and cream breeches, but he had golden hair that was as unruly and eye-catching as James’s had been. He was also the same height and build, with broad shoulders and slender hips.

  The illusion had been so real that she had sat forward, her trembling hand reaching out toward the handle of the carriage door. “James? Oh, James, can it be you?” The foolish, longing words had slipped so easily from her lips that she suddenly knew how very much she missed those early days together, and how much she still
loved James as he had been then. Tears had sprung to her eyes as she realized that it could not possibly be him.

  She had watched as the stranger put on his hat and gloves and then went to climb into the curricle that waited for him at the curb. He took up the reins and flung the restive team forward, so that the little vehicle skimmed around the cobbled square, passing right by her. She saw his face very clearly then. He was very like James, just as dashing and breathtakingly handsome, with keen blue eyes and a firm mouth with fine lips. His complexion was tanned from much time spent in the open air, and his features were rugged and yet aristocratic. She had no doubt that whoever he was he was of noble birth, and that he was no languid drawing-room knight, but a man of action and swift decision.

  She still did not know who he was, but it was because of him that she was now doubtful about her future with Alexander. Seeing that golden-haired gentleman leave the house in Hanover Square had forced her to remember the way it had once been with James, and to face the fact that the love she shared now with Alexander would never match what she had known then.

  The carriage was now driving through Knightsbridge, and she stole a secret glance at him as he sat opposite. With him there had never been the same fire and excitement, but then he would never play her false a thousand times over with any woman who caught his roving eye. It had been because he was unlike James that in the beginning she had allowed him to woo her. The pain of James’s deceits and infidelities had been fresh, and she did not want to be reminded. Alexander did not remind her at all.

  He was steadfast and easygoing, kind and gentle, and he adored her with all his heart. But his kisses did not turn her blood to fire in her veins, and his caresses did not arouse the passionate desire that flared into life when James’s hand had touched hers.

  She felt guilty and disloyal as she glanced at him in the light from a passing street lamp. He was not as good-looking as James had been, or indeed as the stranger in Hanover Square was, but he was very attractive for all that. He was tall and slender, with thick dark-brown hair and long-lashed hazel eyes, his lips were full and sensitive, and he was naturally a little pale, all of which led to his being regarded by many of the more impressionable ladies as being the embodiment of Lord Byron’s romantic hero, Childe Harold.

  Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage had been published almost two years before, and had taken society by storm. Lord Byron was the object of much adulation, and his hero of much female fluttering and improper longing. Poor Alexander was a little tired of being called “Harold” by his teasing male friends, and was now wont to respond by pointing out a little sharply that he did not possess any dark secrets, nor was he prey to unmentionable vice.

  Tonight he did not resemble a wandering medieval knight, but was very much the up-to-date London man of fashion. Beneath his astrakhan-collared fawn greatcoat he wore a silver-buttoned black velvet evening coat that was deliberately cut too tight to be buttoned, so that his white satin waistcoat and lace-trimmed shirt front could be shown off to best advantage. His superbly tailored white silk pantaloons made the most of his long legs, and his full, starched cravat was finished with a glittering diamond pin. He was wealthy, sought after, and very eligible indeed, but although he could have had his pick of brides, it had been James French’s widow who had caught his eye from the moment she had returned to London and purchased the villa in Kensington.

  He had laid siege to her, dancing constant and determined attendance, and proving himself time and time again to be everything her husband had not been. His patience had finally paid dividend, and at Christmas she had accepted his proposal. In a month’s time, on his twenty-ninth birthday, their formal betrothal would take place at his residence, Norrington House, Cavendish Square, and on the first day of May she would become Lady Norrington at a wedding ceremony at the same church where once she had become Mrs. James French.

  The carriage had now entered Piccadilly, which was almost as busy at night as it was during the day. The shops, hotels, stagecoach ticket offices, residences, and lodging houses were all still brightly lit, and the pavements were crowded with people. Devonshire House was not far ahead now, and once again Elizabeth endeavored to push all thoughts of the past into the background, where they belonged. But events were already in train that were to make it very difficult indeed for her to ignore what had once been.

  The night would probably have passed without event had it not been decided that the ball was the perfect occasion for the first appearance in society of Elizabeth’s spoiled, romantically impressionable young cousin, Lady Isobel Crawford. Isobel was eighteen years old, with shining chestnut hair, large green eyes, and a willowy figure that always looked particularly enchanting in clinging muslin gowns.

  Isobel was the only child of Elizabeth’s uncle and aunt, the Earl and Countess of Southwell, who had had her late in life and who consequently had always indulged her every whim. The earl had been in poor health for some time now, and he and Elizabeth’s aunt seldom left Southwell Park, their fine country seat near Nottingham, so that when Isobel was old enough to enter London society, she was sent to reside in Park Lane with her Aunt Avery. Isobel had traveled south very eagerly indeed, for she had read and reread Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage and longed to meet exciting Lord Byron, whose estate at Newstead Abbey was tantalizingly close to Southwell Park, but who infuriatingly chose to live in the capital.

  When she had arrived in Park Lane, society gossip was such that she was determined at all costs to make the acquaintance of the poet, who was said to be as handsome, fascinating, and fatalistic as the hero he created. At length she had met him at one of her aunt’s private dinner parties, but he had scorned her, and had remarked within her hearing that he found her tedious and tiresome, Isobel’s adoration had been crushed in a moment, but she had very swiftly perceived how best to prick his arrogant vanity. Knowing that he had a very high opinion of his good looks, but was unfortunately cursed with a club foot, she remarked, within his hearing, that he would not ever have the grace to dance well. She was rewarded by the angry color that had stained his face, and by his early departure from the dinner party. But although she now disliked him intensely, she still could not help admiring his poetry, especially Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, and she consoled herself that somewhere in London there was bound to be a gentleman who would become her Harold, her pale handsome hero.

  It was to be upon Alexander that her covetous, longing gaze would fall, but as she traveled to Devonshire House with her aunt, he was still no more than a name to her. She and Elizabeth had never been particularly close. As children the five years between them had been too great, and then Elizabeth had married and left England. They had met several times at Aunt Avery’s, but had not had a great deal to say to each other, and the identity of Elizabeth’s future husband was a matter of indifference to Isobel. Her only concern about the forthcoming betrothal ball and subsequent wedding was that both occasions would give her an opportunity to dress in her finest clothes, and shine to excellent advantage.

  Devonshire House, which faced across Piccadilly toward Green Park, was a rather ugly mansion set behind a high brick wall. The ball was such an important occasion that all the nearby streets were choked with fine carriages, and a small army of liveried footmen was required to keep at bay the crowds of onlookers who braved the icy winter night to watch the haut ton in all its luxury.

  The house was approached through wide wooden gates that opened into a courtyard, and the main entrance was beneath a plain pillared carriage porch. From the porch, the guests stepped into a vast hall at the far end of which there was a semicircular bay overlooking the lawns and the famous elm trees that in summer gave such leafy shade. The bay also contained a circular staircase made of marble and alabaster, with a baluster of gilded ironwork and a solid crystal handrail, and the duke’s glittering guests ascended this to the ballroom on the floor above.

  The whole building was ablaze with lights, one of the most fashionable orchestras in the land had
been engaged to play, Gunter’s of Berkeley Square had provided one of their matchless ball suppers, and there was a lavish supply of chilled champagne and lime cup. Every room was filled to overflowing with hothouse flowers, as if it were the height of summer instead of one of the coldest winters in living memory, but the weather wasn’t on anyone’s mind as the beau monde danced the night away.

  William George Spencer Cavendish, sixth Duke of Devonshire, was twenty-six and a bachelor, but he was also a very lavish host, and the ball had been a resounding success from the outset. It became even more of a success when the duke himself introduced a bold new cotillion. Cotillions had been in favor for a long time now, but this new version, called L’Echange, involved sets of only two couples, and ended rather wickedly with an exchange of partners and a kiss on the lips. The opportunity for flirtation and intrigue was manifest, as the duke’s delighted guests were not slow to perceive.

  By the time midnight arrived, Elizabeth and Isobel had been at the ball for several hours, but although they had encountered each other when Elizabeth had come to pay her respects to Aunt Avery, Alexander had not been present because he had gone to speak for a while with his old friend, Tom Crichton.

  As the chimes of the witching hour died away, it was not the new cotillion that was in progress, but a stately ländler. A sea of elegant, bejeweled people swayed beneath the shimmering chandeliers of the white, blue, and gold ballroom where paintings by Veronese and Rubens alternated with vast mirrors, and the babble of conversation sometimes drowned the sound of the orchestra as it played on the dais at the far end of the room.

  Isobel was stealing a few minutes to herself, and had taken refuge in a corner where a red velvet sofa was almost hidden by an arrangement of flowers, ferns, and potted palms. She had danced virtually every dance, been flattered and admired by countless gentlemen, but there had not been one who had even begun to turn her head. She snapped open her fan, and wafted it discontentedly before her face. She wore a delicate white muslin gown that outlined every curve of her figure, and there were diamonds at her throat and in her hair.