The Incomparable Countess. Mary Nichols

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      Frances watched them, feeling drained. He had been arrogant seventeen years before and he was arrogant now. He had enjoyed making her squirm, enjoyed the buzz of conversation which followed him wherever he went, positively glowed with satisfaction when he was surrounded by sycophantic mamas, all trying to put forward their daughters. Surely he would not marry one of them?

      It was not beyond the bounds of possibility. After all, she had married George and he had been older than Marcus was now. It often happened when a widower needed heirs or someone to be a second mother to the heirs he already had: he chose a very young lady. Wives who were young were usually also strong, able to bear children and look after elderly husbands when they became frail. They did it for the jointure they would receive on becoming a widow. And widows had more freedom than spinsters. As she did. She valued that freedom.

      Smiling, she mingled with her guests, thanking them for coming and engaging them in light conversation before moving on. She looked in on the card players, but they hardly noticed her so absorbed were they. When she returned to the ballroom, she found Percy leaning nonchalantly against a pillar, surveying the scene through his quizzing glass.

      ‘What are you looking at?’ she asked him.

      ‘His Grace, the Duke of Loscoe,’ he said. ‘Already there is speculation about which he will choose.’

      ‘And what do you think?’

      ‘I think he has more sense than to shackle himself to one of those ninnyhammers, though he is wise enough to leave the door open.’

      ‘That sounds so cold-blooded. You’d think he was buying a cow at market.’

      He smiled and let the glass drop on its ribbon to dangle on his chest. ‘Well, he is, isn’t he? Nothing so commonplace as love comes into it. And they cannot see it. Or perhaps they do not care to.’

      ‘Percy, I do believe you are envious.’

      ‘Not while he confines his attentions to those empty-headed chits, though if he were to turn his eye in another direction, I might not be so easy about it.’

      She was intrigued. ‘What other direction?’

      ‘Oh, it is of no consequence,’ he said airily. ‘Come, they are making sets for the Sir Roger de Coverley. Let us take to the floor and show how it is done.’

      It was not easy to converse during the country dance, but she was puzzled. Sir Percival Ponsonby, the confirmed bachelor who always maintained that marriage was nothing more than enslavement, in love! She could not imagine it. ‘What did you mean, another direction?’ she demanded as they left the floor at the end of the dance. ‘I cannot believe you are in love. You have always been outspoken against marriage. Leg-shackled, I believe is the word you are wont to use.’

      ‘Being in love has nothing to do with marriage, Fanny. It is only women who insist on linking the two.’

      ‘Oh, you are talking about a light o’ love,’ she teased. ‘Who is she this time?’

      He turned to look down at her, smiling. ‘Now, you do not expect me to tell you, do you?’

      ‘No, of course not, you would be too much the gentleman.’ She laughed. ‘Go and dance with someone else or you will have the gossips talking about us and that I will not have.’

      ‘Very well.’ He bowed and left her with Mrs Butterworth, whose plump face was wreathed in smiles.

      ‘It has been a wonderful evening,’ that good lady said. ‘Of course we have yet to deduct your expenses, but I think we can safely say the orphans will benefit by a considerable sum.’

      ‘I will cover the expenses,’ said a voice.

      Frances whirled round to find the Duke at her elbow. ‘Your Grace, I did not know you were there.’

      ‘I came to claim my waltz and overheard. Please allow me to meet the cost of the ball. It will mean all the money you have taken will be profit.’

      ‘My lord, I cannot allow that,’ she said.

      ‘Surely it is not for you to refuse,’ he said, looking past her to smile at Mrs Butterworth. ‘I am sure the ladies of the committee will urge acceptance.’

      ‘Indeed, yes,’ Mrs Butterworth said, simpering up at him. ‘How very generous you are, your Grace.’

      Why, Frances asked herself, did everyone fall over themselves to toady up to him—he was conceited enough as it was? ‘But, sir, it was never my intention to ask for expenses,’ she said.

      ‘No, I am sure not, but that doesn’t change the fact that tonight has been a costly business and it will please me to help. You are, after all, a widow…’

      ‘An independent widow,’ she said tartly.

      He bowed in acquiescence. ‘Just as you please, my lady.’

      ‘Oh, please do not quarrel over it,’ Mrs Butterworth put in. ‘Can you not share the charges?’

      He laughed and looked at Frances. ‘A capital solution, do you not think so, my dear?’

      ‘Very well.’ She gave her answer reluctantly, not because they could not use the money but because it somehow belittled her, made it seem that she needed a man’s protection.

      ‘Now that is agreed, let us have our dance,’ he said, unaware of her rancour. ‘I have to prove to you that I know how to waltz.’ And without waiting for her to protest, he took her hand and led her onto the floor.

      Not only did he know the steps, he was very accomplished and she was soon whirling round with his hand on her back guiding her. And if he held her a little closer than the regulation arm’s length, she was too immersed in the conversation they had just had to notice. He was insufferably top-lofty. What Mrs Butterworth must have thought she dare not think.

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