Mistress in the Regency Ballroom. Juliet Landon

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      ‘Yes, my lord, but—’

      ‘Good. Then keep it, will you?’

      ‘But you haven’t answered my question.’

      ‘Oh? I thought I had. I wish you would listen as well as you talk.’

      ‘Odious man!’ she muttered.

      Mr Waverley was amused by the new partnership. ‘What’s happened, Lettie? The fellow’s sticking to you like glue. I think he’s smitten.’

      ‘Fudge!’ she said. ‘Bart, rescue me. Walk home with me. Don’t leave me alone with him. He’s only trying to show Miss Melborough that she has some competition, that’s all. I know the kind of tactics such men use.’

      ‘Maybe, but Sir Francis doesn’t look too pleased about it, either, does he? He’s been sending you the oddest looks. What’s that all about?’

      She did not explain. She had noticed the crowded Melborough box during the interval but, without peering through her lenses, had not been able to see who the visitors were. Nevertheless, she was receiving the distinct impression that Sir Francis, who would normally have been amongst the first to ingratiate himself with her, was keeping well out of her way.

      Undeterred by her watchful escort, she managed to speak to many of her friends, her pupils’ parents and their friends, too, and had thought that, as they began to seat themselves for the second half, she might be invited to join their ranks. But Lord Rayne was having none of it and, disregarding the interest and envy of her pupils, he steered her back to the same chair with the utmost propriety, giving them little to gossip about except that their guardian was once again being claimed by him.

      And indeed there was nothing to which she could object except his closeness; no touching, no arm across the back of her chair, no flirtatious remarks, no compliments except in his eyes. It was, she thought, as if his aim was to familiarise her with his nearness as he would with an unbroken young horse. Which, after all, would have been the way of any suitor except this one, for whom conventional methods were usually too slow.

      Years of watching her vivacious sisters take centre stage, however, had caused her to develop an unhealthy cynicism, enabling her to see through and partly to despise the ploys men used, the foolish games they played. And in view of her previous encounters with this particular buck, she was unlikely to let go of her conviction that she was being used as some kind of instrument in one of his games in full view of the pert and eager Miss Melborough, not to mention her ambitious parents. While she could not help but absorb the exciting vibrations from the man at her side as she had never done before with anyone, it was her steely common sense that pulled her emotions back from taking precedence over her writing, which needed information of this kind more than her starving sensitive heart did. If it was common sense, then it must be right, for what else did a woman like her have to rely on?

      Agog with curiosity to see whether Lord Rayne would walk back to Paradise Road with Miss Boyce, her pupils were almost as excited to hear him call farewell to his relatives and to see him take one of the carriages with Letitia and Mr Waverley, which seemed to them a little odd when Mr Waverley lived almost next door to the theatre. Mr Chatterton and Mr Thomas had only yards to go. What the pupils did not discover is that, by tacit consent, Mr Waverley, Lord Rayne, Miss Gaddestone and Miss Boyce stayed up until past midnight in the drawing room, drinking red wine from sparkling cut glasses through which the candlelight danced and winked. Talking like old friends, not one waspish word was heard between them. Then the two men left, Lord Rayne having accepted a lift back to Sheen Court in Mr Waverley’s phaeton.

      It was usual, at the end of each day, however late, for Letitia to enter notes into her book before they suffered from distortion or, worse, amnesia. This night, the notebook stayed locked in her drawer while she lay against the pillows to watch the shadows move over the bed-curtains, not because she was too tired to write, but because her thoughts were torn by conflict, her heart entering a period of slow ache in anticipation of the pain that was sure to come unless she armoured herself against it. Of course he was teasing her. Her sisters said he was a tease. This was nothing but a game to him. Nothing but a game.

      For the next two weeks it began to look as if Letitia’s reading of events was accurate, the only communication from Lord Rayne being a formal note of thanks for an enjoyable evening, then a brief visit in person to return her mended spectacles. But since she was out with her pupils at the time, they did not meet. In a way, she was relieved to have missed him, for she had nothing to say except to offer him her thanks.

      She was even more certain of her ground when, only two days later, she took her pupils to London to the Royal Academy Annual Exhibition at Somerset House where she found her sisters and mother in Lord Rayne’s company. By chance, Miss Melborough was not one of the party, having twisted her ankle the day before and, in some discomfort, had been left to work on her watercolour until their return.

      Letitia’s sisters, as always, were glad to see her and to unload on her their latest experiences, shopping trips and parties, their mama’s dinner party and the men who had caught their attention most. Lady Boyce greeted her eldest daughter more formally with a stand-off embrace and a showy kiss past each cheek that could hardly have been called motherly. After relating to Letitia what she had missed by not being at home, her remarks centred around the attention being shown to Garnet, especially by Lord Rayne. ‘There’ll be an announcement soon, Letitia,’ she said, waving her fan to friends Letitia could not quite identify. ‘Mark my words. I’m never wrong about these matters. I can always tell when a man is about to declare himself. Well, heaven knows, it happened to me often enough before your dear papa snared me. Lord Rayne is very keen, you know.’

      ‘Yes, Mama.’

      ‘So these are your gels, are they?’she said, glancing round. ‘They look respectable enough. Isn’t that Sir Mortimer Derwent’s daughter?’

      ‘Maura. Yes. They live in Farnham. She boards with us.’

      ‘Your papa used to hunt with them. And there’s your Mr Waverley. Still faithful, is he? Who are the other two?’

      ‘That’s Mr Dimmock, our watercolour teacher, and Mr Ainsley, our drawing master. Rosie has stayed at home with one of the girls, but the lady over there in brown is Mrs Quayle, our next-door neighbour. Would you allow me to introduce her to you? She’d be so thrilled.’

      ‘Another time, dear. Nice to see you. Keeping well, are you?’

      It was pointless for Letitia to reply when the orange turban had already turned towards other faces and, since that exchange appeared to be the sum total of her mother’s interest, she adjusted her spectacles and moved away to the walls lined with pictures.

      Softly, Lord Rayne’s voice spoke into her ear. ‘You’re using them I see, Miss Boyce?’

      She turned to face the dark serious eyes and immaculate form of the one man she had hoped not to see. ‘Yes, my lord. Thank you for returning them to me. They’re quite perfect. I cannot tell where the mend is.’

      ‘Ayscough on Ludgate Street,’ he said, gravely. ‘My mother gets hers there. He recognised them.’

      ‘He should. That is where they were bought. But please don’t let me keep you from your obligation to my sisters. I had not expected to see them here, nor my mother. They don’t usually show much interest in this kind of event.’

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