Waltzed Page 3

  “Tell us about your home in India,” Ellie said. “I understand the climate is rather warmer than what we are accustomed to in London.”

  He gave a solemn nod. “It’s true. Imagine the hottest summer day here in England. Now multiply that by a factor of one third, add a host of stinging insects, and a general sense of ennui that can be difficult to overcome, and you have a June day in Assam.”

  It was an exaggeration, of course, but he was gratified to see Delia’s mouth turn down in distaste.

  “It sounds a bit challenging,” she said primly.

  Abigail, however, was not so easily put off.

  “Surely there are Englishwomen who brave the climate for the sake of their families,” she said. “Your mother has lived there for years after all.”

  “True, but it has been difficult for her,” he lied. Then he mentally shrugged and heaped more untruths upon the first. “She can scarcely wait to return to London—especially since her lady’s maid was bitten by a cobra just this spring.”

  “How dreadful,” Lady Tremont said, casting an anxious glance at her daughters.

  “It’s a dangerous country, between the poisonous snakes and diseases, not to mention the flooding and landslides caused by the monsoon rains each year.” He shook his head. “In truth, it’s a wonder so many English manage to carry on—especially in the wilds of Assam, which is where our plantation is located.”

  Ellie gave him a wide-eyed look. “But surely you are not so far from civilization as all that?”

  “We manage to visit Calcutta a few times a year,” he said truthfully, neglecting to mention that the town of Sylhet was much closer and provided all the basic amenities.

  “It sounds very exciting,” Abigail said, clearly undaunted. “And if one is in love, I imagine such things are no obstacle.”

  Her mother gave her a sour look. “Most matches are made for practical reasons, my dear. You’d do best to remember it.”

  “I don’t care if my husband is titled or rich,” the redhead said, tossing her head. “I intend to marry for love.”

  With those words, she leaned toward Kit, giving him a moon-eyed look that left no doubt as to the object of her affections. Unfortunately, he could not shift away from her or he’d be too close to her sister. It was a sticky situation.

  “Don’t be a ninny, Abby,” Delia said. “Marrying for love is the outside of foolishness. I’m certain Lord Christopher would agree that practical matters such as breeding and fortune should be the foremost things to consider.”

  Her words hit a bit too close to the mark, and he gave her a strained smile. “I think practical romanticism is the best way forward.”

  At any rate, it seemed to work for his parents, whose strong affection for one another had helped them weather any number of tribulations. Of course, when they’d married, neither title nor wealth had come into play. It was only now, with the marquessate hanging over their heads, that such things took on importance.

  “Speaking of gentility,” Lady Tremont said, “may we entertain you with some music, my lord?”

  “Certainly,” he said. “I don’t have much opportunity to hear the pianoforte. The tropical climate is hard upon the instrument.”

  “Girls,” the viscountess said, “do the honor of entertaining our guest, if you will.” She turned to Kit with a self-serving smile. “Delia plays the pianoforte and Abigail the violin, and they both sing delightfully. My daughters are very talented.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” he said.

  Ellie coughed into her hand and would not meet his eyes—a sure sign that he needed to brace himself for the concert to come.

  5

  The sisters rose, taking their suffocating perfumes with them, and Kit pulled in a cleansing breath. Delia seated herself upon the piano bench, while Abigail took up the violin resting in a silk-lined case.

  Forewarned by Ellie’s reaction, he managed not to flinch as the younger sister drew the bow across the strings, producing a sound like an ailing cow.

  “You’re not on pitch,” Delia snapped from her place at the piano. She tapped one of the keys relentlessly. “Here’s the note. No, higher than that. Wait, that’s too high! Go lower.”

  Finally, Abigail managed to get the instrument in some semblance of tune, and they launched into their first piece. Kit guessed that Abigail did not play often, as she struggled through the music. At least the pianoforte produced a pleasant enough sound, though Delia had a tendency to hit the keys with too much force.

  It was difficult to discern, but he thought they were performing a Bach minuet. Thankfully, it was a short selection, and he applauded vigorously at the end, relieved it was finished.

  That turned out to be just the beginning, unfortunately.

  His only consolation as the sisters warbled unsteadily through a rendition of “The Last Rose of Summer” was that Ellie was clearly biting her cheek to keep from laughter. He shot her a pained glance, and her gaze skittered away from his.

  Just as well. He knew they could easily set one another off, and no matter how untalented Delia and Abigail were, it would be too rude to dissolve into laughter during their recital.

  It did not escape his notice that Ellie was not asked to contribute. If he recalled correctly, she had a clear, light soprano and an adequate mastery of the keyboard. No doubt Lady Tremont wanted no competition for her daughters’ so-called talents.

  Finally, the butler summoned them to dinner, and the caterwauling came to a blessed end.

  “What do you think, my lord?” the viscountess asked, clearly proud of her offspring.

  “That was an entirely memorable concert,” he replied. “Your daughters have no equal.” Though not quite in the direction she thought.

  Ellie’s mouth was screwed into a fierce frown—no doubt to hide her smile.

  “That scowl is most unbecoming, Ellie,” Lady Tremont said to her. “May I remind you that jealousy is unladylike in the extreme.”

  “You are correct,” Ellie said, clearly attempting to master herself. “Do forgive me.”

  “Breeding will show,” Delia said, rising from the piano bench and smoothing her skirts. “Lord Christopher, would you be so kind as to escort me in to dinner?”

  Which was, Kit thought, rather an ironic breach of etiquette.

  Her sister shot Delia a poisonous look, but the viscountess gave a regal nod.

  “Indeed,” she said. “Dinner is waiting. Please, follow me.”

  She led the way out of the drawing room. Kit followed with Delia clutching his arm, leaving Abigail and Ellie to bring up the rear.

  At least Ellie was seated where he could see her, though with Delia on his left and Abigail directly across from him, he’d have to be mindful not to show her any particular attention. Lady Tremont presided over the head of the table, of course. She kept the conversation firmly fixed on her daughters throughout the meal, extolling their needlework, dancing, and impeccable taste in fashion.

  This last was said with a sneering look at Ellie, and Kit quickly turned the topic to the food.

  “This is an excellent roast,” he said. “I’ve missed having beef as a regular part of my meals.”

  “Do they not have cows in India?” Abigail asked.

  “Yes—but they are sacred beasts, and not for slaughter or eating,” Kit said.

  “How barbaric,” Delia said with a patronizing sniff.

  Ellie glanced at her stepsister. “I rather imagine that we are the barbaric ones in their eyes.”

  “Well put.” Kit smiled at her—he couldn’t help it.

  “What else do you eat, or not eat, in India?” Abigail asked. “I never imagined foreign customs would be so fascinating.”

  He would wager she’d never given much thought to the world beyond London. Well, if nothing else, perhaps this conversation would broaden her mind a bit.

  “Curries, of course,” he said. “And there’s a great deal of spice in all the food. It takes some getting used to.” He did
not add that, as a result, the food in England seemed quite bland.

  Ellie sent him a glance, as if reading his thoughts. “It must be rather a change for you.”

  “I’m enjoying reacquainting myself with British cuisine,” he said.

  Well, perhaps enjoying wasn’t the right word. He looked forward to returning to the pungent and flavorful meals of India.

  “We have a lovely blancmange for dessert,” Lady Tremont said.

  “A fitting end to the meal,” he said, keeping his tone serious. “White pudding. So very English.”

  Ellie twitched, and once again refused to meet his eyes. He smiled internally to see her reaction. At least her mood had lightened, which made him doubly glad he’d come that evening.

  As the servants removed the plates, the viscountess turned to him. “When might we have the pleasure of your company again, Lord Christopher?”

  A pity his harrowing tales of India had not discouraged her from foisting her daughters upon him.

  “I’ve quite a bit of business to attend to in London,” he said. “I really can’t say.”

  “At least we’ll see you at the Queen’s Ball, won’t we?” Abigail gave him a longing look.

  “Assuredly.” He glanced over at Ellie, partly to avoid giving Abigail any encouragement and partly to see Ellie’s reaction.

  She did not seem excited at the thought of the ball—not in the way her stepsisters were. In fact, her expression had teetered into melancholy. He was once more reminded that something was amiss in the Tremont household, and resolved to have a private word with Ellie before he left that evening.

  “How unfortunate that you have no female relations to accompany to the ball,” Lady Tremont said to him. “A bachelor arriving alone to such a prestigious event is always cause for comment. Queen Victoria and Prince Albert do like to see their subjects surrounded by family.”

  Clearly she was angling for an offer of escort, but he was not willing to go quite so far. He glanced once again at Ellie, noting the bleakness in her eyes.

  “I hope you’ll save me a dance,” he said.

  Although his words were directed at Ellie, both Delia and Abigail fastened upon them.

  “Of course, my lord,” the dark-haired sister said. “I would be delighted.”

  “May I put you down for the first waltz?” Abigail asked.

  Her mother gave her a quelling look for being so forward, but Kit was amused by her lack of subtlety.

  “Certainly,” he said. “And a polka set for you, Miss Delia. They still dance the polka at balls in London, do they not?”

  “Most assuredly,” Delia said, somewhat stiffly. “I would be delighted, my lord.”

  The narrow-eyed glance she sent her sister made it clear she wished she’d spoken sooner and claimed the waltz instead.

  “I shall mark you down for the quadrille, if I may?” Ellie said.

  “Please do—though you might have to steer me through some of the moves.”

  Thankfully, he had a few weeks to brush up on his dancing skills before the ball. They did not, as a general rule, perform the more elaborate choreography at the informal dances held in the Manohari Assembly Rooms.

  I must admit,” Ellie said, her eyes holding a spark of amusement, “it has been some time since I attended a ball myself. I was hoping you might guide me.”

  “We shall invent our own steps, then.” Kit grinned at her.

  “I assume you are jesting,” Lady Tremont said in a reproving tone. “I would not like to see you make a fool of yourself on the dance floor, Lord Christopher.”

  “Oh, he’s far too graceful for that,” Abigail said. “I can hardly wait for my waltz with you. It was so kind of you to ask.”

  Kit’s brows rose. It seemed the redhead had already come up with her own version of events.

  “Shall we retire for a few hands of cards?” Lady Tremont asked, rising.

  It was more a command than a question, of course. They all stood, Delia taking a possessive grip upon Kit’s arm, and obediently followed the viscountess to the drawing room.

  He tried to sit next to Ellie but was outmaneuvered by her stepsisters. For the rest of the evening, he found no chance to have a word alone with her. Lady Tremont was vigilant as a hawk, and her daughters were too fixed upon him for any opportunity to arise.

  At last, as he was preparing to take his leave, he caught Ellie’s eye.

  “Do you still ride, Miss Tremont?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, fingering her skirts. “But not recently.”

  “Mourning does take its toll.” Lady Tremont gave an unconvincing sigh. “At least we are now emerging from its pall. But I’m afraid Eleanor has far too much to do to go gallivanting about on horseback.”

  “A pity,” he said, keeping his tone light. “I hear the weather tomorrow is clearing at about two in the afternoon. At any rate, I thank you for a most inspiring evening, Lady Tremont.”

  “It was entirely our pleasure,” she said with a satisfied look. “Until the Queen’s Ball, my lord.”

  “Until then.” He bowed over her hand, then Delia’s, then Abigail’s.

  When he came to Ellie, he squeezed her fingers lightly, and she returned the pressure in two quick pulses. Good—she’d understood his message.

  Whether she could contrive to escape the prying eyes of her stepfamily remained to be seen. But Eleanor Tremont had ever been a resourceful girl, and he trusted her to prevail.

  The thought enabled him to smile at the gathered ladies one more time before he donned his hat and stepped into the cool English night.

  6

  “Oh, gracious,” Abby exclaimed as the door closed behind their visitor. “Just think—Lord Christopher asked me to waltz with him!”

  “Ninny,” Delia said. “You were the one who asked him. Very unladylike of you, I must say.” She reached over and pinched Abby’s arm.

  “Ow!” Abby jerked away from her sister. “You’re only jealous because he obviously prefers my spirit of adventure. Anyone could see how frightened you were when he spoke of the dangers of India.”

  “Why, I—”

  “Girls,” Lady Tremont said in a stern voice. “There is to be no more bickering over Lord Christopher. Whichever one of you he chooses, the whole family will be the better for it. The son of a marquess after all! Why don’t you concentrate on his qualities instead of your own?”

  “He has wonderful green eyes,” Abby said with a sigh. “Perhaps our children will have his eyes and my hair—wouldn’t that be a stunning combination?”

  “You wouldn’t want to curse any child with that red,” Delia replied. “Dark hair is so much more becoming—which is why Lord Christopher and I would make a far better match.”

  She plumped her coiffure with a self-satisfied smile.

  Ellie bit her tongue and tried not to think of Kit or his future; but as her stepsisters rhapsodized about his broad shoulders and ruggedly handsome face, she could not help but add her own mental comments to the list.

  Kind, as he had ever been. Perhaps too kind, as his offer of dancing with them at the Queen’s Ball demonstrated. Though she had to admit, it did add to her anticipation of the event.

  Intelligent, with a wry humor that still matched her own. Several times during the course of the evening, she’d had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing aloud at some of his sly jokes.

  Adventurous, of course. It was plain that India suited him. And she knew she shouldn’t have encouraged him in his wild tales of that country, but it had been such fun seeing her stepmother’s expression sour with disapproval.

  It was a pity that by the end of the evening, Lady Tremont had overcome her reluctance. She seemed perfectly happy at the thought of sending either of her daughters off to face the dangers of a foreign land, as long as it would earn her the social cachet she coveted.

  As if Papa’s title wasn’t enough!

  Ellie tamped down her spark of temper at the thought. There was no u
se feeding her anger at her stepfamily. She knew it was a conflagration that would ultimately consume her if she let it rage forth.

  But what was she to do?

  Pondering that question dampened her mood completely. Now that she was emerging from mourning, it was clear there were very few options open to her.

  No dowry, and no useful connections, now that her father was gone. Perhaps someone might marry her for love, but that was a foolish notion indeed. She had no callers, except for Kit—and he was departing back to India in less than a month’s time.

  She was relegated to a status of unpaid servant in her own home. And although she supposed she ought to be glad to have a roof over her head and no fears about when her next meal would arrive, it was no way to exist. Especially given the spiteful natures of Lady Tremont and Delia, who were glad to belittle her at every opportunity.

  Perhaps Kit would have some insight for her, provided she could slip out on the morrow. He’d been quite clever with his clues. First the daisy, which grew in a meadow in Hyde Park where their families used to picnic on warm summer days, and then his invitation to go riding and comments about the weather clearing at two o’clock. She knew precisely when and where to meet him.

  Whether or not she should was another matter, of course—but she would bring her maid, Henderson, along. There could be no accusations of impropriety, should their meeting be discovered. Despite her resolution to keep him at arm’s length, she found that the prospect of having a friend to confide in, just once, outweighed all other considerations.

  Hyde Park was lovely—fresh, green, and sparkling from the morning’s rain. Ellie drew in a deep breath as she walked beneath the oak trees. The little lane was peaceful, the grasses starred with tiny daisies. The air brightened ahead, the trees opening up to a clearing where she and Kit’s families used to take picnics on warm summer days. She tried not to hasten as she and Henderson came closer to her destination, though her pulse began to pound.