The Wallflower's Last Chance Season
Autor
Julia Justiss
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22
Chapter One
Eliza Hasterling tucked back into her reticule the needle and thread she’d used to repair the tear in her skirt where the hapless Mr Alborne had trod on her hem. Hopefully it wouldn’t show; her meagre allowance wouldn’t allow replacing the gown. Giving her feathery curls one last look in the mirror, she left the ladies’ withdrawing room and headed for the stairs back down to the ballroom.
Her forthright friend Lady Margaret would say it was her own fault for dancing again with Alborne, she thought with a sigh. But with his spotted face and eager, puppy dog eyes, she found it impossible to fob him off as Maggie—and so many other young ladies—did. Being neither handsome nor rich, and clumsy into the bargain, he was hardly considered a desirable parti. Knowing what it was like to be overlooked and disparaged, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for the young man. Which meant, as she didn’t snub him, he repeatedly sought her out.
Even she might have to start refusing him if he were going to destroy her limited wardrobe.
She’d descended the stairs and begun to cross the room when the older gentleman to whom she’d nodded as they passed uttered a sharp cry of dismay. She turned to see the cane on which he’d been leaning skid off the first step and clatter to the floor. Losing his balance, he pitched sideways.
She rushed over to grab his arm, not strong enough to prevent him staggering to his knees, but at least able to keep him from falling full-length on to the floor. After she helped steady him back to his feet, she knelt to recover the cane.
She’d just handed it back to him when two matrons entered the passageway and stopped short, eyeing them curiously—the gentleman leaning on his cane, looking down at her, and Eliza beside him on her knees. Seeing the flush of embarrassment on the gentleman’s face, Eliza held her hand out to him, saying quickly, ‘How clumsy of me to stumble! I do thank you for offering to help me up.’
Catching on, the man took her fingers and pulled them as she rose to her feet. Belatedly recognising one of the matrons as the imperious Lady Arbuthnot, Eliza braced herself.
‘Lord Markham, how condescending of you to lend her a hand,’ the lady said before turning to Eliza. ‘You should be more careful, Miss Hasterling. You might have careened right into Lord Markham.’
‘No harm done, Your Ladyship,’ Markham said.
Giving Eliza a disdainful glance, Lady Arbuthnot nodded to the Viscount, then linked her arm with her friend’s and proceeded past them up the stairs. As they reached the top of the stairway, she murmured—but quite loud enough for them to hear—‘A clergyman’s daughter. No grace or poise—but then, what can one expect?’
Her companion sniffed. ‘Gracious of Markham to even acknowledge her. She ought to know her place and keep silent!’
Eliza pressed her lips together, feeling her own face redden but determined to ignore the remarks. Once the women walked out of earshot, she said, ‘You are unharmed yourself, Lord Markham?’
‘Yes, thanks to you—Miss Hasterling, was it? So very generous of you to spare my blushes—at the cost of bringing down the unkindness of Lady Arbuthnot on your own head. I’ve half a mind to follow her and put her straight!’
‘What, and undo my good work?’ Eliza said with a smile. ‘You mustn’t concern yourself about Her Ladyship. As she considers a mere clergyman’s daughter far beneath her notice, she is unlikely to trouble me further. I’m just glad I was here to prevent you suffering an injury.’
‘Have we been introduced? You seem to know me, but I’m afraid I don’t recall meeting you. A terrible lapse, not to remember so fetching a young lady.’
‘We were introduced last Season, but it was just before...’ She hesitated a moment before continuing, ‘Just before you lost your lady wife. Quite understandable that much of that sad time became a blur. My condolences, by the way, on your loss.’
The smile faded from the Viscount’s face, a look of haunted grief replacing it, and Eliza chided herself for reminding him. Why could she not have just said they’d been introduced, and left it at that? She knew Markham, having finished a year of mourning, had only just re-entered society. By all accounts, he and his late wife had been very close, and he’d been devastated by her death.
‘I’m so sorry!’ she cried. ‘I didn’t mean—I shouldn’t have—’
Markham waved her to silence. ‘No need for apologies, child. It was a grievous loss, but I’m coming to terms with it...gradually. After my unexpected meeting with the floor, I should probably not strain my knee further tonight by dancing. But may I escort you to take some refreshment, in thanks for your kind and timely intervention? Had you not come to my aid so quickly, Lady Arbuthnot would have found me sprawled out on the parquet, a humiliation she would have excused at the moment and afterwards delighted in describing to her friends.’
Eliza chuckled. ‘So she would have! I’m happy I was able to prevent that.’
‘Shall we have a glass of wine to celebrate that felicity?’ Markham asked with a smile.
Smiling back, Eliza had just allowed Markham to tuck her hand on his arm when a tall, dark-haired man hurried into the passageway. ‘Father, is everything all right? You’ve been gone rather long. Withram is asking for you.’
‘Just chatting with this lovely young lady. Do you know my son, Miss Hasterling?’
Eliza stared up, fascinated, at the handsome, rugged face of the man who was regarding his father with concern. Dressed in simple, understated black evening garb, he was whipcord lean, with dark hair curling on to his forehead that he brushed back impatiently, and intense dark brown eyes. When he reached his father’s side, she noted the marked resemblance, the newcomer a younger, stronger, more vital version of the gentleman she’d rescued. A strong current of attraction rippled through her as he halted beside them.
‘N-no, we’ve not been introduced,’ Eliza said, pulling herself from her scrutiny of the gentleman.
‘Let me do the honours. Miss Hasterling, may I present my son, Baron Stratham? Stratham, Miss Hasterling.’
After bows and curtsies were exchanged, Markham said, ‘I’m about to escort Miss Hasterling to the refreshment room. You can tell Withram I’ll look for him afterwards.’
Bedazzled at first by Stratham’s virile figure and handsome face, Eliza only then realised that he hadn’t returned her smile of greeting. Instead, he was staring, stone-faced, at the hand she had rested on his father’s arm.
For a moment, she thought he would remark on it—though what could he possibly say? Although there was nothing remotely improper about a lady taking a gentleman’s arm, Eliza none the less felt a flash of discomfort, as if she had been caught doing something she shouldn’t.
‘Shall we go, Miss Hasterling? With the ball ending soon, you’ll want to return to the dancing, and I wouldn’t wish you to miss that treat.’
Markham nodded to his son, but instead of leaving to deliver his father’s message, Stratham said, ‘I believe I shall have some wine as well.’
A look passed between the men—gentle resignation on the part of the father, determination from the son. ‘Accompany us if you wish,’ Markham said mildly.
As they strolled, the Viscount said, ‘You must let me repair the lapses in my memory of meeting you last Season. Where does your family reside? I don’t recall being acquainted with your father. He’s a clergyman, you said?’
‘Yes, but it’s not surprising you have not met. He seldom leaves his parish in Saltash, near Plymouth, where he resides with my mother and the rest of my family. I’m staying in London with my older sister, Lady Dunbarton, who has been kind enough to act as my chaperon so Mama can remain at home with my younger siblings.’
‘Have you a large family, then?’
‘Quite large. I have two married sisters; my only brother is still at home, being tutored by my father, who is a notable scholar, while Mama tends to the little ones.’
As she answered the Viscount’s questions, Eliza was all too conscious of his son walking behind them, seeming to tower over her, still unsmiling. Disapproving, it seemed?
But of what could he disapprove? He hadn’t encountered Lady Arbuthnot, so he couldn’t have been regaled with an account of her ‘clumsiness’.
Or—did he think she had designs on the Viscount? Markham was, she knew, a wealthy widower—if he’d not been titled, he’d be just the sort of parti her friend Maggie was urging her to beguile into marriage, the sooner to become a rich widow in charge of her own life. Not a goal to which she aspired, though she was trying to give Maggie’s Grand Plan a fair hearing.
Still, she had to suppress a smile at the ridiculous notion that anyone would suspect lowly Eliza Hasterling, daughter of an obscure county clergyman, of having designs on a viscount.
Less amusing and more irksome was the unusual experience of encountering someone who seemed to view her with disapproval. She was accustomed to being treated with kindness and courtesy by her friends and family, while with her modest dowry and undistinguished connections, she was usually overlooked or ignored by society gentlemen.
Taking another quick glance at Stratham’s sombre expression, she wasn’t sure she liked being noticed.
By now they’d arrived in the refreshment room. Eliza accepted the glass of wine Markham obtained for her, trying to ignore the scrutiny of Lord Stratham, who continued to hover nearby. Recalling her friend Lady Laura Pomeroy’s advice that the best way to engage a gentleman in conversation was to enquire about his interests, she said to Markham, ‘You have lately been in the country yourself, have you not, my lord?’
‘Yes, at our main residence in Hampshire, Stratham Hall.’
‘Do you have other children residing there with you?’
‘No, alas—all but my son have married and moved to homes of their own, one daughter residing outside York, another near Portsmouth and the youngest recently wed to a gentleman from Northumberland.’
‘Do you plan to stay long in London?’
‘The rest of the Season, probably. I grew...lonely in the country.’
‘London will certainly cure you of that! Always something to do and people to see! What are you most looking forward to in the city?’
‘I enjoy seeing old friends and visiting the theatre, but especially love perusing the King’s Collection at the British Museum.’
‘Ah, you are a scholar, too, my lord?’
‘Probably not on the order of your father. I do enjoy philosophy, poetry and the classics.’
An avid reader herself, Eliza exclaimed with delight, ‘The classics? Which do you like best? I’m no great scholar myself, but Papa did teach me Latin and a little Greek. I particularly enjoy Petrarch.’
‘Do you indeed?’ Markham said, looking impressed. ‘As do I! You must allow me to call on you, so we might discuss our favourite passages.’
Shaking her head, Eliza held up a disparaging hand. ‘You mustn’t be thinking me erudite! I only know the poems for which I had Papa’s help with the translations.’
‘I should be interested to discover which ones he felt worthy of you reading.’ After a slightly exasperated look at his son, who contributed nothing to the conversation but still hovered at his elbow, Markham said, ‘I must let you go back to the dancing. But you will allow me to call on you tomorrow?’
So he might thank her again for assistance, Eliza suspected, which he did not wish to do with his son listening in. He wouldn’t want to admit his embarrassing near-fall in front of Stratham.
‘I’d be honoured,’ she replied. ‘As I mentioned, I’m residing with Lady Dunbarton at Holly House on Brook Street.’
Markham waved to a waiter to take their empty glasses, then offered her his arm. ‘Let me escort you back to your chaperon.’
Putting aside his own glass, Stratham once again followed them. Like a knight vigilantly protecting his king from danger, Eliza thought, suppressing a smile.
As they entered the ballroom, Eliza spotted her sister chatting with friends. ‘My sponsor is over there,’ she said, pointing.
‘I’ll walk you over,’ Markham said. ‘You will introduce me—us,’ he added with a rueful glance at the man trailing them, ‘won’t you?’
‘Of course.’
Just before they reached Lady Dunbarton, Stratham paced forward to walk beside them. ‘You enjoy dancing, Miss Hasterling?’
Behold, the sphinx speaks, she thought. ‘Very much, Lord Stratham.’
‘Would you do me the honour of standing up with me for the next waltz?’
A hollow feeling swooped in her stomach at the thought of being held close to that lithe, powerful body, her hand in his, his other hand clasping her waist. Then her brain caught up with her overexcited senses and reminded her he seemed to look on her with disfavour.
Besides, she should know better now than to let herself be carried away by a strong physical connection. One humiliating rejection should be enough for a lifetime.
But if he disapproved, why had he asked her to dance?
However, she was not promised for the waltz, and as usual, couldn’t quickly come up with a convincing reason to refuse. ‘It would be my pleasure,’ she said reluctantly.
Her sister noticed her approaching, her look of annoyance changing to surprise as she took in Eliza’s escorts. Smoothing her expression to one of welcome, she curtsied to the men, who bowed in return.
‘I return your charge to you safely, Madam,’ Markham said.
‘Thank you, Sir! I’d been wondering where she’d got to.’
‘I had to repair my hem,’ Eliza explained.
At her sister’s frown, Eliza realised she shouldn’t have brought attention to the slightly shabby state of her gown. As Lady Dunbarton would doubtless later point out, she should instead have simply said that she’d gone to the retiring room.
Would she ever master the art of social chit-chat, where one automatically refrained from doing or saying anything that might show one in an unfavourable light?
‘The delay is my fault,’ Markham was saying. ‘I encountered her in the passageway and persuaded her to brighten my first ball in a year by taking a glass of wine with me.’
‘Maria, you will remember Lord Markham—and his son, Lord Stratham? My sister, Lady Dunbarton.’
‘Of course. It’s good to have you back in London, Lord Markham. And I don’t believe I have previously met your son.’
‘Stratham never had much interest in larger society,’ Markham said, a marked dryness in his tone. ‘Then over this last year, he’s been taking much of the burden of managing the estate off my shoulders, which has kept him in the country.’
‘Always a delight to have another handsome gentleman in town,’ her sister said, giving Stratham a bright smile.
‘As it is pleasant to renew our acquaintance, Lady Dunbarton. And yours, Miss Hasterling,’ Markham said.
‘I’ll be back to claim my dance,’ Stratham said. With another bow, the two strode away.
Her sister’s gaze followed them across the floor before she turned back to Eliza. ‘What happened?’
Briefly, Eliza recounted her meeting with the Viscount—although she didn’t mention that she’d saved him from falling, instead inserting the fib that he’d recognised her, then asked her to accompany him for a glass of wine, where they encountered his son.
‘Two very eligible partis,’ her sister said, nodding approvingly. ‘And the younger one coming back to waltz with you! Well done, Eliza!’
‘He asked out of politeness only,’ Eliza insisted, not wanting to reveal more of the complicated undercurrents that flowed between them. Attraction on her part, regrettably. Enough scepticism on his that she really wasn’t looking forward to him claiming that dance.
No matter how aroused her silly senses were at the prospect.
‘I know you’ve been cautioned to be more...reserved in society than you are among family, and often have little to say to young gentlemen,’ her sister observed. ‘But with Stratham coming for a waltz...what a sterling opportunity! You must make a determined effort to converse with him.’
‘I do converse...some,’ she protested. ‘I’m just not comfortable voicing the sort of fawning flattery, or worse, clever but critical observations about others that seem to make up most of the conversation between young society ladies and gentlemen. I have no trouble talking with older men, who like Papa generally have more wide-ranging interests.’
‘Mature men like Lord Markham? He’d be an excellent catch, if a bit old for you. Gossip is that after mourning his wife, he’s now decided he wants to find a congenial companion to brighten his golden years. Though I would think you would prefer the son. What a handsome devil he is, to be sure! Stratham has a good deal of money in his own right, for after his mother’s death, he inherited the estates that had been her dowry. Already a courtesy baron, he’ll be viscount after his father.’
‘Let’s not be marrying me off to either of them yet,’ Eliza said quickly. Heaven help her if the already suspicious Stratham sensed from her sister’s demeanour that Eliza was setting her cap for his father!
‘Well, you need to put your mind to attracting someone,’ her sister reminded. ‘You know Papa can’t afford to give you another Season. Dear as you are to me, my pin money wouldn’t extend to funding another one for you, either.’
‘I know. I appreciate you taking the time to squire me about again this year,’ Eliza said.
She was all too aware that this would be her final Season. If she didn’t find a husband before society dispersed for the summer and she returned to the wilds of Saltash, she likely never would. And would end up sharing the unhappy fate of other well-born but indigent spinsters, shuffled from one family home to another to help with children, ailing relatives or the elderly.
Much as she enjoyed her sisters’ children, she still cherished hopes that one day the babes she tended would be her own. And that she could be mistress of the home in which she lived, supported by a husband whom she loved and admired.
She would take her sister’s advice and make best efforts to converse with Lord Stratham—if he did in fact come back to claim his dance.
Though she was quite sure that her as yet unknown husband would be neither Viscount Markham nor his handsome, suspicious son.
