A Most Improper Proposal

They climbed the grand stone staircase and Isabella was reminded once again of Cinderella as she ran from the prince and lost her glass slipper. How unfortunate to finally find your prince then to be forced to tear yourself away from him just as he was falling in love with you. What if they had not found each other again? Mayhap Cinderella was lucky to have found him at all. Isabella certainly doubted that she would ever find such happiness, let alone a prince.

‘What is it, Isabella?’ Lady Watson questioned. ‘Are you sure you’re warm enough?’

‘Yes, thank you, Lady Watson. I really am quite comfortable.’

‘I do hope that you haven’t caught an ague after being in a damp dress this afternoon.’ Lady Watson shook her head and tucked her companion’s hand more securely into the crook of her arm.

At the door to the ballroom, Lady Watson paused to catch her breath. ‘Now, dear, remember: head up, shoulders back and hear only what is favourable.’

Isabella nodded.

‘We will have a good time, my dear, no matter what.’

‘No matter what,’ Isabella repeated, though she felt her serenity of just moments ago begin to drift away from her like clouds on a breeze and she wondered if she would ever feel completely at ease amongst London’s high society.

* * * *

The ballroom was a truly magnificent sight. It was almost one hundred feet in length and forty wide, and when fully illuminated it was like a night sky full of stars. The walls were divided with panels and paired pilasters and decorated with festoons and paterae, giving the rooms a Roman feel. Isabella felt that this was appropriate as the decadence enjoyed by many of le Beau Monde who attended Almack’s, did echo that of the ancient Romans she had read about.

Walking into the ballroom was a bit like walking the gangplank, then plunging into shark-infested waters. Isabella watched as they started to circle, clearly the scent of her blood and the nervous thrumming of her heart had alerted them to her presence. She pressed the hand holding her fan against her stomach so that it rested like a shield in front of her body.

‘Ah!’ Lady Watson exclaimed. ‘My dear Lord Howden. How are you?’

The elderly gentleman took Lady Watson’s hand and bowed low, brushing his withered lips against her fingers. He reminded Isabella of a balding old crow in his black jacket and breeches, with his bony legs clearly outlined in their silk stockings. At any moment she could imagine him stretching out his arms like wings and strutting around the room, bobbing his head backwards and forwards in the funny way crows do.

‘I am very well, Lady Watson, and all the better for seeing you.’

Lord Howden leered as he turned to Isabella and openly eyed the low neckline of her gown. She flickered her eyes over the dome of his head where his sparse hair had been greasily combed from one ear to the other in a futile attempt to conceal his expanding scalp.

She bobbed a curtsey and he took her hand, then leant over and kissed it more sloppily than he had Lady Watson’s. Isabella fought the urge to pull her hand away and frowned with dismay at the damp patch his kiss had left on her silk glove. She yearned to wipe it against her dress to rid herself of his drool but such behaviour would not be proper or comely.

‘You must save me a dance later on, Miss Adams.’ His wolfish grin seemed all the more sinister because of the missing teeth and the foul stench of his breath. That smell would now be clinging to her glove.

‘Of course, Lord Howden. It would be an honour.’ That I dream not of…

‘So lovely,’ he muttered, then turned and walked away, lifting his right leg slightly as he unabashedly adjusted his manhood.

‘An honour, dear?’ Lady Watson smiled.

‘I am afraid not, Lady Watson.’ Isabella shook her head. ‘I have tried to show the gentleman good manners…’ She wondered if it would be awful of her to confess her thoughts, but Lady Watson was not easily shocked. ‘However, I cannot bear to dance with him for he whispers the most awful things into my ear, then claims that it is his age and that his mind wanders.’

Lady Watson laughed. ‘Yes, dear, like his hands. Lord Howden has not altered in the sixty years during which I have been of his acquaintance. Outliving three younger wives and dallying with countless mistresses has done nothing to dull his ardour. I thought that he would fall head first into your gown the way he was leaning over to peer down your neckline.’

‘Lady Watson!’

Despite her shock, Isabella laughed, for the old lady’s wicked humour was most infectious.

As they approached a circle of ladies, Isabella felt her laughter die in her throat. Lady Watson coughed and the nearest two turned and quickly assessed the new arrivals, evaluating hair, clothing and jewellery in one sweeping glance.

‘Lady Watson.’ Lady Herridge bowed her head in acknowledgment. ‘And the lovely Miss Adams.’ Though the lady smiled, her tone was icy and her pale-blue eyes were hard as flint.

‘Well, ladies…’ Lady Watson addressed the small circle of women in their colourful evening gowns and headwear. They reminded Isabella of a picture she’d once seen in a book about parrots in a jungle. ‘May I ask what you were discussing?’

‘My dear Lady Watson’ – Lady Herridge drew herself up to her full height and paused for effect – ‘we were discussing the latest arrival in London.’

The ladies tittered and fussed and Isabella glanced quickly from one hard face to another. There was much flickering of fans and exchanging of knowing smiles.

What did they know? She felt her vulnerability once more, as the unswallowable lump rose in her throat and began to choke her. Was it someone from her past? Was there a chance that her former shame would be resurrected and bandied about this season as well? Her head began to ache and she felt certain that her knees would give way.

Lady Watson applied a gentle pressure to her hand, squeezing it just a fraction in the crook of her elbow.

‘The latest arrival.’ Lady Watson stared hard at Lady Herridge. ‘And whom might that be? The Duke of Wellington, mayhap?’ She smiled broadly at her suggestion, well aware that the snobbery of this club had kept that honourable gentleman from entering its social circle.

‘Oh, no, Lady Watson!’ Lady Herridge announced triumphantly. ‘Someone far more interesting. At least, someone you will find far more interesting.’

Lady Watson shook out her golden fan with its decorative yellow feathers and raised it to her face.

‘Pray tell me the name of our new arrival, Lady Herridge.’ Lady Watson’s voice was calm but Isabella sensed her tension. It made her long to stand between the two ladies in order to block out the mocking face of Lady Herridge. She wanted to whisk her saviour away from this gladiators’ arena because she feared what knowledge Lady Herridge was about to impart, but she forced herself to stand still and silent and to imitate the unflinching dignity that Lady Watson displayed.

‘None other than…’ Lady Herridge sniffed and her companions giggled behind their fans. ‘Lord… James Crawford.’

Isabella heard the collective intake of breath and waited as it was held. But if the colourful vultures expected to feast upon the remains of a devastated Lady Watson, then they were as disappointed as the hyenas at their edges, because the lady showed no sign of weakness or surprise. Instead, she smiled, as if already privy to the information.

‘Oh, I say, Lady Herridge, that is no news to me; I thought you spoke of another.’ She chuckled. ‘Of course I am aware of my nephew’s return. And, I believe, he will make an appearance here this evening.’

Lady Herridge frowned.

‘You knew of his return?’

‘Of course, Lady Herridge.’ With a proud nod of her head, Lady Watson smiled at the circle of disappointed women, then turned on her heel, practically dragging Isabella behind her.

As soon as they had escaped to the coolness of the hallway, Lady Watson peered around to check that they were alone, then leant against the wall and fanned her face furiously.

‘Lady Watson?’ Isabella’s stomach churned and her hands shook as she reached out to still the lady’s fluttering hands. ‘What is it? Why did that disturb you so?’

Lady Watson was silent for a moment then she turned her moist grey eyes to Isabella and held her gaze. Isabella watched as a tear escaped and ran down the withered cheek, leaving a pale trail through the pink circle of rouge.

‘Because, dear girl, I knew nothing of his return. He has not contacted me to inform me that he is here in London, nor to make arrangements to see me before we meet up in society.’

Isabella’s heartbeat quickened as she registered the insult to Lady Watson and a slow anger began to burn in her belly at the poor manners of the man she had yet to meet. But her desire to comfort the old lady dominated.

‘Well, perhaps he has not had time, Lady Watson, or perhaps…’

‘Perhaps, nothing,’ the old lady shook her head. ‘It is clear that my dearest nephew, once the light of my life and my pride and joy, has not yet forgiven me. He still blames me, perhaps he even hates me. I have not set eyes on him in five long years and I had hoped that time would help him to heal, but for him to slight me in this way is evidence that I am out of his favour still.’

Isabella’s eyes filled with tears of compassion.

‘But what did you… what could you have done to make him treat you in this way?’ Lady Watson was so kind, so compassionate and so sincere that she could not imagine her doing anything so wretched as to merit this ill treatment.

‘None of us are straightforward, Isabella, and we learn, hopefully, from our mistakes. I have never set out to hurt anyone but, at times’ – the lady stared off into the distance and her eyes clouded over – ‘my decisions may not have been the right ones.’

Suddenly aware that someone was standing right behind her, Isabella twisted around and found herself staring into a familiar face. Instantly, colour rushed into her cheeks and her fan took up its defensive position across her chest.

‘Why, Miss Adams, is it not?’

She fell back against the wall next to Lady Watson as she tumbled into the intense, dark-brown eyes of the horseman from Hyde Park.

‘And Lady Watson.’

He bowed to them both and Isabella noted that he was wearing a tight smile that did not reach his eyes.

‘Good evening, Nephew,’ Lady Watson’s response caused Isabella to stare at her, open-mouthed.

Chapter Three

Lord James Crawford stood in front of his aunt and the young lady he had nearly mown down that afternoon. If he hadn’t been so agitated himself, he would have found their expressions amusing. Lady Lydia Watson was looking at him with a mixture of affection and bewilderment. His quick assessment of her informed him that she was either completely shocked or the yellow of her gown was having a draining effect upon her complexion. Typical of his aunt to choose a dress that would have made even a debutante appear less than her best. The old lady was sparky and defiant and had always refused to conform. It had been one of the things he had loved about her.

Isabella Adams was moving her head from him to his aunt, and back again, and she appeared to be totally confused. Her face was pinker than the rosebuds on the trim of her gown and her eyes carried a wariness that he had only seen before in the eyes of a hunted deer. He realised that he recognised the look; she had worn it this afternoon in the park when she became aware of the stares of the afternoon walkers.

What was it that she had to fear?

‘You have already met?’ Lady Watson asked.

Isabella had opened her mouth to answer when James jumped in. ‘Indeed we have, Aunt Lydia. We met this afternoon at Hyde Park, though our introduction was somewhat unconventional.’ He offered a conciliatory smile.

The comely young woman nodded her head at his aunt and sudden understanding filled the elderly woman’s face. ‘So you were…’

‘Yes, it was a most unfortunate incident,’ James agreed. ‘But thankfully both Miss Adams and my stallion, Loki, escaped unharmed.’

‘Thankfully,’ his aunt’s companion echoed, though he noted that it was not gratitude that passed across her pretty face. In fact, she actually appeared to be annoyed with him.

He was suddenly overwhelmed by an urge to reach out and touch her, to pull her against his chest and hold her until he felt her relax against him and he wouldn’t have minded the opportunity to be closer to the fresh pink skin of her bosom. What he could see was tantalising and he wondered if her nipples would be dark or fair, large or small. He shook his head to clear the images as he felt a stirring in his loins. This young lady was enchanting.

‘Well, Aunt Lydia, aren’t you going to enquire after my health? It has been quite some time since we last met.’

‘Of course, James, please excuse me. I am a little surprised. I am afraid that I did not know that you had returned until just moments ago.’ He watched as she lowered her eyes down and closed her fan then ran the fingers of her free hand through the feathers that hung from the end.

The silence hung between them.

When he did not attempt to fill it, she raised heavy eyes to his and asked, ‘When did you return, James dear? Is everything all right? Are you staying long?’

He raised a hand.

‘One question at a time, please, Aunt Lydia. I apologise for not contacting you to inform you of my return, but it was an impromptu decision. I was in Calais at the end of my tour of France, looking out across the channel, when I had a sudden and overwhelming urge to see England again; to feel British soil beneath my feet.’

‘In France?’

James eyed the pretty young woman. She really was delightful.

‘Yes, Miss Adams. The situation there is much calmer now. Many of the French are trying hard to rebuild their lives and livelihoods and are not as hostile as some would have us believe.’ He frowned as he thought of what he had seen in Calais and the surrounding countryside, the poverty of the people and the general antediluvian appearance of the place was a complete contrast to the Kentish towns he knew so well. He returned his gaze to his aunt. ‘I have been away so long and enjoyed my travels but suddenly I knew that it was time to return home.’

‘Well, I am extremely glad to see you, my dear. Your handsome face and your company have been missed.’ Lady Watson’s voice was tight and strained and he detected a slight quiver as she spoke. It made his heart ache to see her so distressed, yet a part of him whispered that she did not deserve his pity.

‘Indeed,’ he replied, nodding his head. ‘And I see that during my absence, some things have changed.’ He smiled at Isabella, holding her gaze until she was uncomfortable enough to glance away, then he turned and swept his arm across the staircase and upper rooms. ‘Yet some things have not altered. Not at all.’

‘No, James’ – Lady Watson shook her head, and his stomach churned to hear her voice laced with sadness – ‘some things do not change.’

‘However,’ he announced with forced brightness, ‘in answer to your questions: I returned six days ago; yes I am well and I intend to stay at least until spring. Although,’ he smiled at Isabella again and leant slightly towards her as if to whisper to her, ‘I may stay longer if I have reason to.’

His heartbeat quickened at the flush that burned in her cheeks and swept across her neck and chest. He was but teasing the maiden and meant no harm but she seemed so serious. She did not, he noted, react as most of the young women and debutantes did in his presence or that of other eligible bachelors.

There was, in fact, no return at all of his superficial flirtation. Instead, she seemed extremely uncomfortable. Almost… humiliated. What have I done wrong?

‘Well, there is room with us, James,’ his aunt interrupted his thoughts, ‘if you have not found suitable lodgings. I would be so pleased to have your company.’ Lady Watson raised a trembling hand to her chest and held it there to convey her sincerity.

‘That is most kind of you, Aunt Lydia, but I would not inconvenience you. However, we have much to discuss. I would like to call on you tomorrow, if I may?’

James stared at his aunt, his head on one side.

‘Of course, James, my dear, of course.’

He took her hands in both of his and raised them to his lips. His aunt was clearly distressed and he did not want to place her under unnecessary strain at her great age. She seemed to have shrunk during the course of their conversation and her yellow gown now appeared too big for her. It hurt him to be this formal with the lady who had rocked him in her arms in his infancy, sneaked into the kitchen with him to steal cakes when Cook’s back was turned and kissed his knees better when he had fallen and grazed them.

This was Aunt Lydia: sweet, kind, eccentric Aunt Lydia and he wanted things to be the way they were; the way they had been before; before it all went so terribly wrong.

He cleared his throat. ‘But this is neither the time nor the place to think on it nor to discuss it.’

She shook her head.

‘No, James. A public display of feeling would not be proper or desirable.’ Her lips twitched. Was there a touch of sarcasm in her tone?

‘It would not.’ Besides, he was acutely aware of the bright hazel eyes assessing his every movement and the small, pearl-clad ears listening to his every word, and he did not want a witness to the frank discussion that must take place between him and his mother’s sister. Not even such a comely and intriguing witness as Miss Isabella Adams.

He lowered his aunt’s hands, then turned to Isabella and reached for one of hers. She paused before giving it to him and he felt his own cheeks colour at her hesitation. If it was this hard to take her hand, he wondered how difficult it would be to take more. The thought of a challenge made him smile inwardly and he decided to reconsider it at a more convenient time.

‘Miss Adams.’ He bowed low over her silk gloved hand and brushed his lips against it. Her sharp intake of breath when his mouth met the silk caused him to look quizzically into her eyes. He caught sight of something there but blinked, and whatever he had seen was gone.

He lingered there for a moment longer than was necessary because her sweet fragrance pleased him but she did not look back in his direction. Reluctantly, he released her hand and pulled himself up to his full height.

‘Well then, Aunt Lydia,’ he straightened his black tailcoat, ‘I will visit you tomorrow morning.’

‘It will be good to see you,’ his aunt replied, her eyes full of a thousand questions.

‘Ladies,’ he bobbed his head, then turned on his heel and hurried away. He had to force himself not to turn and seek out Isabella’s eyes again.

He had found her aloofness most confusing and unusual and he wondered if its roots lay in her anger at the incident at their first meeting or if there was in fact more to the young woman. She intrigued him and he wanted to learn more about her. It had been quite some time since he’d felt any real interest in a woman and he had a feeling that there was something special about his aunt’s companion.

* * * *

‘Ah, Lord Crawford! How good to see you again,’ Lady Castlereagh reached out both hands in greeting to James, causing her ample bosom to bulge at the low neckline of her damask gown.

He took one of her hands and bowed low over it.

‘Lady Castlereagh, it is a pleasure.’

She giggled like a maiden.

‘You are as comely as ever, my lady,’ he bowed again.

She raised her fan and half opened it over her face flirtatiously.

‘Oh, Lord Crawford, you are too kind.’ It was difficult to imagine how this bubbly woman with her sandy brown ringlets and warm brown eyes could reduce some of those keen to attend Almack’s into trembling wrecks. He’d even imagined himself half in love with her at one point in his youth and spent several weeks fantasising about burying his head between her rounded thighs. He shook his head.

‘Lord Crawford, old fellow.’ James felt a large hand land on his shoulder and he turned to face Lord Castlereagh.

‘Foreign Secretary’ – he bowed – ‘how are you?’

‘Very well, thank you,’ the politician replied, shaking the proffered hand firmly. ‘Still being kept busy by our neighbours across the channel, amongst others’ – he smiled conspiratorially – ‘but Britain will always come out on top, old chap.’

James bit his tongue, not wanting a political war of words so soon after his return. He was as happy as the next man at Napoleon’s recent defeat but that did not mean that he agreed with all of British foreign policy. Besides, he had more pressing matters to deal with so he forced out, ‘Of course, Lord Castlereagh. I’m sure you’re right.’

‘How did you enjoy your travels?’

‘Very pleasant, thank you. It did me good to get away.’

The musicians in the balcony changed pace, moving to the triple metre of the waltz. The lively rhythm added to palpable buzz in the air.

‘Good, good, glad to hear it.’

They both watched as groups of ladies and gentlemen took to the floor.

‘I see that the Almack’s uniform has not altered during my absence.’ James gestured at the dancers where the men were identical in their breeches, waistcoats and jackets. They reminded him of magpies.

‘No, old chap,’ Lord Castlereagh replied gruffly. ‘The patronesses would never accept that.’

James felt Lord Castlereagh’s curious eyes upon his face.

‘But the ladies look good, eh, James?’

They did, he couldn’t deny it as he eyed the dazzling rainbow of jewels and evening gowns. A seasoned eye could easily distinguish between the married women and the debutantes, because the younger ladies were dressed in creams and pastel colours whilst the more mature and experienced amongst the gentler sex wore darker, richer shades of crimson, navy and black. The pure colours sported by the debutantes implied that they were themselves pure and innocent but every man of the ton was aware that it was not always the case.

‘We have had some delightful debutantes this year,’ the politician continued. ‘If I were a younger man… and single of course.’ He laughed and slapped James hard on the back. ‘But you…’

James’ nostrils flared. He knew where this conversation was heading.

‘I have just returned to England, my lord, and I need to reacquaint myself with my lands and such before I even think of such matters.’

He scanned the room for his aunt but he was unable to spot the lemon of her dress or the pink of her companion’s. If he could just locate Miss Adams, then Aunt Lydia would not be far away.

‘Well, do not leave it too long, James, or you might find yourself in the same predicament as my darling wife and me.’

James looked at the man’s raised eyebrows and nodded; Lord Castlereagh referred to their childless marriage.

‘Of course, my lord,’ James inclined his head.

‘Ah, there’s the Earl of Liverpool.’ Lord Castlereagh pointed at the prime minister. ‘I shall take my leave of you now, James.’

As the gentleman walked away, James allowed his eyes to perform another quick scan of the ballroom. He could not see Miss Adams and he wondered why she was not on the dance floor. He realised with a jolt that he wanted to see her dance, to watch as the delicate pink fabric of her dress floated around her as she waltzed across the floor, her face glowing with the exertion of the dance, not with humiliation or anger as he had previously witnessed. He wanted to see how she behaved when she relaxed and allowed that cold façade to fall away.

If it was a façade.

And if her clothes were to fall away too, then…

But what of these foolish fancies? He had been away too long and the first English rose he had laid eyes upon had captured his interest, that was all it was and he must refrain from making more of it.