The ball was held in a house in Mount Street, home to one of Donata’s many friends, Lady Courtland, wife of an earl.
A card room had been set up for gentlemen who had no interest in dancing. I usually made for these first thing, now that I had a little more in my pockets to cover the wagers. Tonight, however, I felt the need to stay by Donata’s side.
She did not appear to mind. As a couple, we wandered through the crowd, greeting acquaintances and friends. Donata liked being unconventional, though I knew we’d be laughed at for clinging so close to each other.
“I’m happy you’ve come tonight,” Donata said to me, giving my arm a squeeze. “Not only does it clear my mind from that horrible interview with Mr. Bennett, but you can meet the young men who will be at Gabriella’s come-out next week.”
I had already met a few, and I thoroughly disapproved of them, for no reason at all.
They were paraded before me now, one by one. Not so blatantly—Donata knew how to handle people.
They were Edward Clayton, Emmett Garfield, Geoffrey Kent, and Daniel Marsden.
All four were sons of gentlemen with respectable estates and enough means to stay the Season in London without ruination. Geoffrey Kent was looking to begin a political career, and all four were primed to take over their father’s estates when the time came, and in fact, helped run them now.
They were not aristocrats, though Clayton was distantly connected to an earl’s family, but landed gentlemen, whose fathers owned lucrative estates.
They were, in fact, of the exact means and station in life that I was and my father had been. The difference was that my father had squandered all the income and let the house fall to ruin while these gentlemen’s parents were more responsible.
I’d met Kent and Clayton before. They dressed well but not flashily, were respectful to me and attentive to the ladies, and did not play for exorbitant stakes in the card room. I was trying very hard to find fault with them. Clayton, for instance, spoke with a nasally tone.
David Marsden had even fewer faults that I could discern, much to my irritation. He reminded me a bit of Leland Derwent—very polite, deferential to me and Donata without fawning. He was well educated and seemed to have actually studied something at university—he was interested in science and mathematics as well as ancient texts.
I was happy to meet Emmett Garfield, because here was a man I could actively dislike.
First, he was too handsome. The other three looked like what they were—sprigs of old English families, stretching into the distant past. They had fair hair, pudgy faces, and chins that spoke of too much inbreeding. Garfield had dark hair, a hint of the Continent about him, and was broad of shoulder and taut from riding and boxing. He enjoyed sport, he confessed, more than indoor activities.
He was also cocky. Garfield bowed courteously to me but his look was sly, I thought—he was assessing me as a potential father-in-law.
If he married Gabriella, he’d be connected to a wealthy viscount through me, and no doubt would try to use his charms to have young Peter doing whatever he wanted. The sparkle in his eyes told me Garfield knew exactly what I thought.
“Captain,” he said, with the right amount of deference.
I shook his hand as politely as I could. “Mr. Garfield.”
Donata had moved from my side to speak to friends, the feathers in her headdress swaying, so I could not count upon her to warm the air with conversation.
“You are from Norfolk,” Garfield observed, as I groped for something to say. “Lovely country. I have visited its lanes on an idle day after Newmarket. The draining projects have made the farms there quite rich.”
“Not always,” I answered. “There was a terrible yield a few years ago, when the summer never warmed.”
“Yes, I remember. It affected us all, but it was particularly bad there, I heard. But I understand your farm does not produce at all?”
“Not at the moment,” I said. “I will return there this year and begin improvements.”
“Very wise.” The young man had the audacity to wink. Mr. Garfield leaned closer to me. “I have heard it remarked upon, sir, that you came from nowhere, and now nearly are lord of somewhere—such was your skill.”
“If you have heard such a thing,” I snapped, “the speaker is very impertinent.”
“I know, and I told him so.” Garfield’s smile was warm and engaging, which made me dislike him more. “But you must admit, you were uncommon clever. No one had ever heard of you, and now, here you are, the constant companion of Mr. Grenville, and married to one of the most prominent ladies of the ton.”
So also had the anonymous letter-writer indicated.
My eyes narrowed as I wondered whether this young idiot was the letter-writer himself. He liked to ride, was athletic, and similar sentiments were coming from his mouth.
“Do not worry, Captain,” Mr. Garfield went on. “I defend you to all comers.”
“See that you do,” I answered, my lips stiff.
I turned away from him—politely; I would not embarrass Donata by punching him outright—and walked toward the card room, not happy.
I could not speak to Donata again until we were on our way home. At supper we’d been seated far from each other—I had been conversing with another lady when the bell for supper rang, and as politeness dictated, I escorted her into the dining room and attended her for the meal.
The food was quite good, but my appetite was taken away by imagining the four young gentlemen dancing with my daughter at her come-out ball on Tuesday next. After that, they’d be welcomed to our house to court her.
Then marrying her, being responsible for her happiness. Food turned to dust in my mouth.
After supper, dancing had recommenced. Forced to be a wallflower by my injury, I watched Donata join sets and enjoy herself. She loved dancing, and was partnered by many old friends.
I watched my wife laughing, her hair shining as she turned under the candlelight of the chandeliers, her green velvet gown hugging her shoulders. She was a beautiful woman, full of grace.
Most of our acquaintance had been very surprised that Donata and I had made a match. I knew they assumed I’d want a plump, sweet-tempered homebody, whose chatelaine clanked with keys as she looked after me and her house, always ready with a soothing pat and a remedy to fix any ill.
However, I found in Donata not a wife to wait upon me, but a companion. I could speak to her on any topic, and she had the wit and interest to respond. She understood me as no other woman had—even more deeply sometimes than I wanted her to.
By the time we reached our carriage to return us to South Audley Street, I was tired, disgruntled, and ready to lay my head on her bosom.
I sat rigidly upright, however, on the journey home, anger in my heart.
“Emmett Garfield,” I said when Donata had settled in beside me with a happy but weary sigh. “Why was he chosen as a potential husband for Gabriella?”
“Mr. Garfield?” Donata looked at me in surprise, then she groaned softly and stretched one foot in the leather shoe she wore to move between engagements. Her maid carried her satin, beaded dancing slippers in a special box. “He comes from one of the best families and has a sensible business head. He would never bankrupt Gabriella, and will run his estate well.”
“I do not like him,” I said. “He is supercilious.” Arrogant, high-handed, cocksure … I could continue for some time.
Donata waved her hand, and a drooping feather brushed her cheek. “He is harmless. A bit full of himself, yes, but that will ease as he becomes older and more jaded by life. His father was the same way, Aline tells me, but is now the wisest of gentlemen.”
“A son does not always become the twin of his father,” I said—in my case, thank God. “I would like you to cross Mr. Garfield from your guest list.”