There was a collective gasp, but Reynard turned to her, a smile lurking behind his grave countenance. ‘Indeed, that is very true, Lady Belinda. But doubtless society ladies are already rallying to form charitable organisations to help the men and their families, and urging their husbands to find them work.’
‘One can only hope so,’ she responded seriously.
‘If you will excuse me, ladies? I am promised to Lord Telford for a hand of cards.’ Reynard bowed again and left them to turn on Bel in a flurry of indignation.
‘How could you drive him away like that? Honestly, Belinda, the most handsome man in the room comes to talk to us and you start prosing on about plumbing and amputations!’ Annabelle Bradford scolded.
Bel schooled her face to meekness. ‘I am sorry, I did not think.’ Reynard did not want to speak about his experiences, and she was not going to let these featherbrained women torment him with them, not if she could help it. A good team. The words warmed her inside, adding to the strange hollow feeling that she was beginning to recognise as anticipation and the low, pulsing ache that she supposed was desire.
She turned her face resolutely to the opposite end of the room from where the card room door was. ‘Tell me all about the other attractive men you wicked things have in your sights.’ There could not have been a better choice of subject to distract them. In a ruffle of gorgeous plumage the group settled down in their chairs again.
‘Well,’ Therese began conspiratorially, ‘have you met Lord Betteridge? Just back from the Congress, and I swear…’
Chapter Five
That had not been so bad, Bel told herself as she was driven home that evening. She had survived meeting Lord Dereham again without betraying herself in front of the sharpest eyes for scandal in town, she had mingled comfortably with any number of old acquaintances and met several congenial new people and she found herself more confident and poised than she had ever been in society before.
Age, she supposed, did have its benefits in bestowing some confidence. One came to realise that not every eye in the room was upon you, that you could make little mistakes without the world coming to an end and there was neither a strict father, nor a critical husband, to remind you constantly how much you needed to improve yourself.
Bel recalled with a smile how last month she had even brazenly broken her last days of mourning and taken herself off to the Prince Regent’s reception for the Grand Duchess Eva with the sole intention of getting her Serene Highness to herself to upbraid her for breaking her brother Sebastian’s heart.
She had cast every tenet of polite behaviour to the winds when she had done that, and, although she suspected her well-intentioned meddling had actually made things worse for a while between the two lovers, she now had a friend for life in her new sister-in-law.
Lucky things, she mused wistfully. How must it feel to have a man look at you the way Sebastian looked at Eva when he thought himself unobserved, his very soul in his eyes?
‘My lady?’ They were home, the groom was holding the door of the carriage for her, and had probably been standing there patiently for some minutes.
‘Thank you, James.’ She gathered up her things and stepped out. Yes, all in all, this evening had been a success and she felt confident about repeating it. Tomorrow night was the Steppingleys’ dancing party, an opportunity, she had been informed by Mrs Steppingley that evening, of giving her daughter and her friends some experience before their come-out next Season. Lady Belinda need not fear a juvenile party, she had been assured, her hostess had invited a mixture of interesting people and there would be cards for those not wishing to dance.
It would be fun to dance again, although she would avoid the waltz, of course, and perhaps meeting all those interesting people she had been promised would help keep her mind off a certain broad-shouldered gentleman with a sinfully tempting curve to his mobile mouth. If only he did not make her feel so wicked.
Philpott glided about in her usual stately fashion, unpinning Bel’s hair, locking away her jewellery, stuffing the tissue paper into the toes of her evening slippers before coming back to unfasten her gown.
Bel unclasped the diamanté brooch that had been holding the rosebuds in place. They were beginning to lose their firmness, the delicate petals felt like limp velvet under her fingers.
‘Will you fetch me a box of salt, please?’ she asked the dresser. ‘About so big?’ She gestured with her hands six inches apart.
‘Now, my lady?’
‘Yes, please. These are so pretty, I intend to preserve them as a memory of the first social engagement of my new life.’
‘Very well, my lady.’ Expressionless, Philpott helped her into her robe, handed her the hairbrush and went out. Did she guess the real reason Bel wanted to keep the flowers? If she did, she was far too well trained to let a flicker cross her face.
Bel pulled the bristles through her hair in a steady rhythm, contemplating her aunt’s demand that she engage a companion, then shook her head, sending the heavy fall of hair swishing back and forth against the silk of her robe. Privacy was difficult enough with a houseful of servants, let alone with some stranger, obsessed with propriety and convinced her employer required her company at all times.
No, life like this might be a trifle lonely, but she had grown used to that, even when Henry had been alive. In fact, loneliness was a welcome space of peace and privacy. Those things were more important than satisfying the conventions.
The guests at Mrs Steppingley’s party proved every bit as entertaining as she had promised. After an hour Bel had met a colonel from one of the Brunswick regiments, a gentleman pursuing researches into hot-air balloons as a means of transport for freight, several charming young girls, wide-eyed with excitement at their first ‘proper’ dancing party, a poetess and an alarmingly masculine bluestocking who, on hearing who she was, delivered a diatribe on the mistaken opinions of her Aunt Louisa on the evolution of English church architecture.
As Bel was just about capable of differentiating between a font and a water stoop and had not the slightest understanding of the vital importance of rood screens, she was greatly relieved to be rescued by the poetess, Miss Layne, who tactfully removed her with the entirely specious excuse that Bel had promised Miss Layne her escort into the room where the dancing was about to begin.
‘Phew! At least Miss Farrington despises dancing, so she will not pursue us in here.’ Miss Layne found them seats halfway along the wall and sank down with a hunted look back at the doorway. She fanned herself vigorously, giving Bel a chance to study her. She supposed she must be about forty, a slender woman with soft mouse-brown hair, amused hazel eyes and an air of being interested in everything. ‘What a bore she is.’ She suddenly whipped a notebook out of her reticule, jotted a note and stuffed it back again.
Bel blinked. ‘Inspiration?’ she enquired.
‘Yes! See that young couple over there, pretending not to look at each other. So sweet, and so gauche. It gave me an idea. I have a fancy to write a really romantic verse story.’
‘Will I find your work at Hatchard’s?’ Bel enquired. ‘I am afraid I am very ignorant about poetry. My husband considered it frivolous, so I never used to buy it, although I have to confess to reading my way through Lord Byron’s works at the moment.’
‘Yes, you will find mine there, I have several volumes in print. But you must allow me to send you one as a gift. Some are frivolous, some are serious. But I see no harm in occasional frivolity—’ Miss Layne broke off, her gaze fixed at something over Bel’s shoulder. ‘And speaking of frivolity, what a very beautiful man.