1811, February
The Viscountess Henhurst and her quiet young charge, Miss Olympia Dormer, perched in a plain carriage with the Viscount’s family crest, were headed for the masquerade party at the London house of the Earl of Linton. The Viscountess was attired in a colourless grey gown which matched her position as well as disposition. Her face, completely covered by a matching grey mask, resembled that of an old vulture. The young Miss Dormer wore a pale blue gown- neither expensive nor at the first stare of fashion- that quite became her thin figure. She wore a half mask that she had stitched and embroidered herself out of a bit of silk that sat lovingly on her skin concealing only her eyes, cheeks, and nose. She had tied her hair in a simple knot, never having had nor requiring the luxury of a maid.
She had not yet been presented to the society, but Aunt Agnes had taken her to two small gatherings- both musicals- so far. Today she was attending a masquerade party which was supposed to be bigger than the previous two events even though it was still thin crowd according her aunt. She would finally have a chance to dance, her eyes flitted briefly towards Viscountess Henhurst, if her aunt permitted. A small blissful smile played across her bow-shaped lips as the carriage seemed to slow down. Olympia took a deep breath, placed a hand on her thin bosom and silently urged her heart to stop galloping. This gesture did not go unnoticed by the Viscountess. She had found Olympia to be sensible and modest when she had been obliged to alight upon her maternal home at Ganymede for the first time since her marriage thirty years ago and rescue her eldest niece from the clutches of that vulgar bourgeois woman. She and her younger brother, Sir Algernon Dormer, had never enjoyed any filial affection but the relationship had suffered severely when her brother had chosen to marry beneath him after the death of his first wife, Olympia’s mama. After her brother’s death, the honourable Viscountess Henhurst- couldn’t silence her conscience without undertaking the duty to present her niece to the society. Though she abhorred the company of young persons- having married off her own daughters a decade past- whose excitable nature forever aggravated her humourless convictions, she had brought the dowerless chit to London and arranged for her come out with as little fanfare as possible. Astonishingly, her efforts had been immediately rewarded when the baron Sollow, having seen her in the first musicale she had attended, had asked Henhurst for her hand and the betrothal contracts had been signed just that morning. Presently witnessing the signs of youthful folly on her young niece’s face, she snapped at Olympia her earlier remarks, ‘You are not to take off that mask or introduce yourself to anyone, young lady! It is against my better judgment that I bring you here for there is no longer any need now that you’ve been betrothed. Unfortunately, I had already accepted Lady Linton’s invitation.’
Olympia sat up straighter, allowed the smile to slip from her lips and acquiesced this command with a simple, ‘Yes, Aunt Agnes.’
‘You should be grateful to Henhurst for arranging such an advantageous marriage for you this quickly, even though we had no obligation to see to your welfare. Few girls- not even my own girls were that fortunate. I am pleased I will not have to chaperon you throughout the crowded season.’
Olympia was not afraid of Aunt Agnes, but she was extremely aware of her helpless position and the generosity shown towards her by the viscountess. She had been made aware of other people’s generosity towards her since her mother’s death ten years ago. She had dutifully conferred her sincere gratitude to the Viscount Henhurst and Aunt Agnes. If she had occasionally found Viscount Henhurst looking at her with a decided gleam in his eyes, she was sure she had imagined it. She had also thanked her betrothed Lord Francis Hood, Baron Sollow for proposing matrimony to a dowerless young daughter of a late country squire and for years she had been appreciative of her stepmother for having first tolerated and later fed and sheltered another woman’s child when they had been left almost penniless upon the squire’s death. Olympia had carried in herself a guilt, though she recognised it to be from no fault of her own, for being a financial burden which had culminated in her ready agreement in marrying the first person who had proposed matrimony.
Since she turned fifteen summers, she had spent nights- when even the botanical books of her father had been futile in putting her to sleep- exploring her bleak future options. Olympia had understood that her chances of marrying a man in pursuit of intellectual advancements were non-existent. The clergymen she knew were neither young, nor unmarried. The unmarried local hardworking farmers or the bachelor sons of tenants of Horndale did not want a dowerless wife. And she absolutely did not desire to marry into the local gentry families who were either poor- which will not improve her circumstances- or expected to improve their own social standing where the daughter of a country squire had little role to play. Her too thin appearance and the sharp angles of her face- though found to be pleasing- had never provoked any youths to violent passions either. She had begun resigning herself to becoming a governess- for which she would have to wait several more years- when a month ago Aunt Agnes had arrived in her smart carriage and within the hour- with nobody to challenge her- had whisked her away to London. Olympia, neither foolish nor with excess pride to refuse such heavy-handed manoeuvre, had not protested. Her only regret had been to leave behind the caring of a little blue-eyed devil that was her young half-sister Andromeda.
She found little to object to Lord Sollow. He was much older than her but surely, younger than her father had he been alive. He dressed in supreme fashion, his address polite and his attention not repulsive. He had confessed to having spent the past several years in traveling the continents because he needed to get away from the grief of the death of his first wife. When Olympia had carefully asked, if he still loved her, Lord Sollow had looked at her with an intense gleam in his eyes and had replied, ‘I am looking forward to loving you, my dear girl.’ Olympia had blushed and changed the topic to the adventures he must have had while in the continents and the baron had indulged her curiosity albeit dispassionately.
Aunt Agnes had demanded that she accept the proposal when it was presented because Lord Sollow was rich and was willing to overlook her dowery since it was his second marriage. His first wife was sickly, and barren so no ungrateful brats would be foisted upon her. Olympia might not have agreed with all those reasons, but she had not looked at the gift horse in the mouth. She did not have many expectations from a marriage except to cease being a burden, to one day have children to love. She had not thought much about the husband, confident that she could adjust with any one and tend to their whims. The betrothal contract had been signed without delay and the wedding was expected to take place within the week. Lord Sollow had told her he’d soon take her away from London since he had to attend to his far away estates in Derbyshire and Sheffield. She had no objection, but she intended to fully enjoy the last party before her wedding and before she left this magical city for good. She knew Lord Hood wouldn’t appear in this party since he had told her he had other assignments. Olympia looked forward to making a few friends, dancing, laughing with people her age and to allow the gaiety of the evening to overwhelm her.
After paying their due respect to the hosts, Aunt Agnes joined the matrons as was her habit. Old authorities spoke that the Viscountess had been an ice queen whose hand had been won by Henhurst for a wager. Years of gambling and debauchery by her husband and the only son had left their finances in strain and the severe lady with little consequence. However, she had never shirked her duty in attending the right parties, shunning the bad ton, and criticising the younger generation. She had only a few friends and even fewer enemies. Before seating herself she allowed Olympia to move about the room — now that she was betrothed and it is after all a masquerade she said,
‘You need not hover around me. Dance if you like and do not forget to conduct yourself as the future wife of a baron should. I should not have to repeat that you must not encourage any gentlemen.’
Hearing this lecture, Olympia crushed her impulse to do a little jump, instead she demurely replied what her aunt expected of her, ‘Yes, ma’am.’
She slowly proceeded towards the centre of the room where a few couples were dancing. Finding a place near a large column she stopped and finally allowed herself to look at the opulence and splendour surrounding her. The gentlemen’s shoulders were extra wide in their padded coats and the ladies’ waists extra small with the cinched corsets. Gold, diamonds, emeralds, and rubies twinkled in the candlelight calling attentions to beautifully gowned young misses, several of whom were laughing in the company of gentlemen while dancing past her in circles. In their graceful abandon her heart filled with joy. It seemed as if the smart coats of the gentlemen and the arcs of skirts of the ladies were also busy in their own dance in tune with the music being played. A smile graced her lips without her knowing and she slightly swayed with the music. The evening seemed like just what she had imagined, and the music filled her with anticipation. She hardly recognised anyone, all decked in various costumes and disguises. That her own dress was shabbier and jewellery paltry, she did not care. This is when the single pendant at her neck- her mother’s- caught the candlelight and cast the reflection into the eyes of a tall young man in conversation with three other young men and two ladies.
Unconsciously Lord Horndale’s eyes followed the sparkle and came to rest on an old-fashionably dressed schoolroom chit with a half mask, hair as black as the night, tied back in a neat bun. She was too thin, too innocent to flame his imagination. His eyes returned to his present company instead. All were dressed for the masquerade in fashionably luxurious frippery. Though guised in their dominos and masks, there was no hiding the jadedness in their eyes. He himself was London bred and had little indulgence for innocence. But when a few minutes later, his eyes again settled on this unremarkable creature involuntarily, in the back of his mind he gathered that she was slightly leaning forward, hands clutched tightly together in front of her midriff. His eyes flitted away again, nothing having caught his interest and dismissing her as someone’s countrified cousin. He felt a marked irritation for this particular brand of females, who often found themselves tongue-tied in his presence, inexperienced in the art of flirtation and too self-conscious to enjoy anything. This damsel did not seem self-conscious though betraying her eagerness to dance in the way she stood looking at the couples. Such unconcealed display of emotions only belonged in the country, he thought severely. She might as well stand unclothed. The damsel did not belong in London parties, and it grated on his nerves the little chit stood utterly oblivious. Forcing himself to look away he returned to the conversation of his present company again. Earl of Auden was asking him, ‘Say Horn, is that Hebe your sister Kitty?’
Horndale dutifully looked towards where Auden’s eyes pointed. His mother, dressed as Aphrodite, and his younger sister, as Hebe, stood surrounded by men both old and young fawning over them. If he occasionally found his mother’s gaiety unseemly in someone as old as her- not that she looked her age-, who was he to say anything as long as his father did not care.
‘That’s her.’ He turned his gaze towards Auden, who he had got to know was courting Kitty. In absence of any marriageable aged young Marquesses and Dukes, Auden was the most sought-after bachelor this year. He himself held the courtesy title of Earl of Horndale but Auden’s title was the real one. And everyone knew he was looking to get saddled lacking an heir. In contrast, Horndale’s father was in excellent health and possessed an heir and a spare.
‘By God she is beautiful.’ Said Auden reverently. Then he added with a smirk, ‘I wonder if she’ll feed me from that cup she’s holding.’ At Horndale’s raised eyebrows he cleared his throat and said, ‘Wine, you know.’
‘I could not care less.’ Horndale drawled. Kitty was his parents’ concern. When she had made her come-out last year, he had mistakenly tried to rescue her from one of her more amorous suitors to be told by his mother that Kitty was merely entertaining herself and by Kitty that he need not concern himself because if Papa did not like it, he could very well chaperon her himself. It was futile to ask his father because he had never taken any interest in any of his children other than his heir and was content leaving the care of his daughters in his wife’s hands. His invariable answer was, ‘Your mother is capable enough or Harriet wouldn’t have landed Rowbridge.’ But Harriet, Horndale’s senior by a year, had been a sensible girl, well suited to an equally intelligent Rowbridge with a humorous disposition.
Auden cast Horndale a careful glance to see if Horndale was serious. ‘Your sister has led me a merry chase so far.’ Auden slowly said.
‘Then don’t chase her.’ Horndale said sipping his wine.
‘Now don’t be obtuse, Horn!’ Auden said heatedly, ‘I mean to make her my countess.’
It was not an implausible dream after all. Auden was not among the most handsome suitors of Kitty. But he was the richest and Horndale’s mother was no fool.
‘By all means.’ Horndale replied smoothly, his eyes idly scanning the room. This indifference provoked the earl beyond measure. He said, ‘Have you no obligation? She is your sister!’
‘I know that.’
‘If you cared even a little you’d see-’ Auden was about to launch into grim consequences of having Kitty Villiers being frequently seen in company of a married middle-aged marquess who had been hanging by her sleeve for longer than a sennight.
‘Spare me the diatribe.’ Horndale cut in, ‘And make your pretty speech to my sister.’
Auden’s lips curled into a sneer. Through clenched teeth he muttered, ‘Devil take you, Horn!’ and brushed past Horndale in pursuit of his future countess.
Horndale turned back towards his remaining company that included Lord Gingham, Mr Voss, Lady Holbrooke, and her sister-in-law Lady Bilsthorpe. Both the gentlemen were busy falling over themselves in winning the favour of the enchanting widow Lady Holbrooke who, he found, was instead looking at him. He was currently in between mistresses, and he had briefly entertained the idea of accepting Lady Holbrooke’s persistent invitations. But he was soon brought to the realisation that her artifice repelled him. A cloud of boredom engulfed him. Ignoring Lady Holbrooke Horndale looked across the room again in a quick survey, trying to decide how soon he could escape. His eyes landed upon several worthless acquaintances who he recognised through their masks and guises, footmen clumsily carrying drinks to the matrons, someone entering the card room which echoed in loud laughter as it was opened- and, to his mild surprise, again upon the simple young girl standing at the edge of the dance floor, still without a partner. He allowed himself to give her an unhurried perusal because it was apparent to him, she would not relinquish his attention otherwise. She stood unmoving, unaffected, and ignorant of his notice. This third time his critical eyes discerned the pink parted bow-shaped lips adorned by the hint of a dimpled smile, two small curls of hair which had fallen out of her bun, a round face which was yet to mature out of its childish contours, eyes of undiscernible colour twinkling in unrestrained joy and the whole profile radiating a gamine charm. Her face held the promise of maturing into beauty. Horndale felt warm, and a shiver went through his body leaving goosebumps behind. Impossible, he thought irritably. He quickly closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe deeply while concealing this bizarre reaction from his companions. It was unmistakeable that she wanted to dance, but no one paid any attention to the poor nobody hovering at the edge of the dancefloor.
‘Damn her.’ Horndale cursed under his breath. Exactly why she had captured his awareness he did not pause to think. He excused himself from the group and found himself headed in her direction.
Horndale was stopped several times by his father’s acquaintances, his own from Oxford and several ladies. The previous dance had come to its conclusion and a new one was about to begin. While he was still a few steps away, he saw easily above the crowd- being taller than most- she suddenly turned and started walking away from him. He followed her with his eyes, unable to bridge the distance- it seemed her destination lied outside the ballroom. He saw her slip past the double doors while Dowager Lady Digby stopped to ask him why she had not seen his dear mama in ages. Horndale didn’t hear her, merely caught her hand, brought them to his lips but did not pause to reply while Lady Digby cried, ‘Incorrigible boy!’ at his back. Minutes must have passed before Horndale could extricate himself outside the ballroom and once outside he stood undecided for a moment, questioning himself why he had dashed madly after a chit whose name he did not know, whose face he would not recognise. He looked back at the well-lit ballroom, inviting and warm; with a sigh he entered into the side garden under the full moon light. Clearly, he was bored out of his mind if running after an infuriatingly cheerful girl held more appeal to him.
The music flowed through the open high perched windows loud and clear into the chilly deserted garden. The light from inside the windows spilled and illuminated the parts close to the walls. Large trees aligned in a straight line a few meters away from the walls that hid most of the light from the backside of the garden. Horndale walked ahead with sure steps- its sound muted on the thick grass- wondering if he would unwittingly come across a lovers’ assignation. Unlikely. He moved into the shadows of the trees. On his right lay a spread of the garden that was bare of any flower plants or trees. His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. When he found the moving silhouette of his query, he stood fascinated at the sight that greeted him.
The chit- mask-less- was pirouetting in the most graceful circles as if almost floating in air. Her porcelain face shone under the full moon in animation, lips wide in an excited smile. Her arms were thin as those of a child, but her movements were utterly feminine. Her small breasts perched high up in her chest when she raised her hands over her head were pert and shaped perfectly against her dress. She had surprised him. Horndale had expected a dejected damsel, or even an outraged one. What he had not expected was to see a spirited youth undaunted or indifferent to the capriciousness of gentlemen who had failed to recognise what a beautiful dancer she was.
Slowly as the music changed, she stopped pirouetting and started twirling with the skirts of her dress held lightly in both hands. Every time she twirled her ankles flashed. Once when she missed her footing she laughed openly, all by herself. No poor country girl who nobody asked to dance had cause to be this happy. That laughter went directly to his blood, little sensations of heat coursing through him. He had been cast into the role of a voyeur he realised but he stood unmoving, not wanting to betray himself. He could only perform the role of a mute spectator to this wild frolic. Her hair had come slightly undone. And even though he was not close enough he understood she was breathing hard. Seldom did a man such as the heir to one of the most powerful and wealthy dukedoms came across a girl- for a woman she was not- such as her, who had no notion of propriety, wore her heart on her sleeves and danced alone in abandonment when everyone else forgot her existence. The pace of the music picked up further, rising towards its inevitable crescendo. But it gave her twirling a pause and she stopped. For a moment he wondered if she had become aware of his presence. Then he realised that she was standing, waiting for a particular note as it was being repeated. Twice she raised her hands with a small jump in an attempt to synchronise with it but held back. The third time as she raised her hands she jumped forward towards the ground as if she was falling and- he could not believe his eyes- performed three consecutive tumbles- and landed back, with the clumsiness of a novice, with a loud thud on both of her feet in synchronization to the end of the music, her hands lifted high, back arched elegantly.at her sides. In the back garden of Linton’s London residence. A few feet away from a crowded ballroom. In a dress. For a moment it seemed she would stumble but she caught her balance easily.
Olympia was breathing hard in exhilaration. A disbelieving unladylike snort escaped her mouth at her own audacity. She had been fortunate not to have torn her dress or fall in an ungraceful heap. She wondered how she’d have explained her stained and torn attire to Aunt Agnes had she fallen and felt her face heat up. She quickly felt for her hair, found some loose curls and with a sharp tug tightened them again into the numerous pins Aunt Agnes’ maid had stuck in her head. Taking a deep breath, she turned to find the mask she had left on the ground a few feet away- and ran smack into a wall. A human wall.
‘Oh!’ Olympia exclaimed and tried to move back but was jerked hard by the pendant at her neck which was now tangled with a button of the other person’s waistcoat. A firm hand grabbed her arms to balance her and brought her closer before the chain could snap. Her eyes flew up, craning her neck, locking onto the face of the gentleman. He was lean, a head taller, twice as wide as her, and holding her close. She could briefly make out a masked face hovering over her, and his jaws were locked tight, she dreaded, in disapproval.
‘Oh, no!’ She moaned in mortification before she could stop herself. She recalled her own unmasked face and quickly looked down in a belated attempt to hide her face and stood clutching the chain tightly in a mild shock, expecting a thunderous rebuke or a reprimand or at least an indifferent set down from her captor. When seconds passed and she heard nothing from him she dared raise her head slowly again to look at him. He was looking down at her, his expression inscrutable, body as still as a stone. Weary of his silence, she studied him. His face was partially shielded by a black leather mask. His jaws were strong and wide, his lips were firm, his complexion was swarthy, and his Adam’s apple slightly bulged in his neck. Sensing he was not going to say anything Olympia decided to sacrifice her pride. She was afraid she had ruined herself. If only she could induce him to hold his silence forever.
‘Is-is it too much to hope that you did not witness my- my- aerobics, sir?’ She asked, her heart beating wildly, in a tentative whisper while she moved her hands from her chain and started to unclasp it from her neck so it can be loosened from his coat easily. The chain gave away and hung dangling from the button of his waistcoat. For a moment it seemed he wouldn’t answer but then the stony expression on his face fell away and he said, ‘It is.’
The soft baritone voice drifted to her from the giant’s mouth, the sound of it drowning her and soothing her. Countless women had found his voice alluring in bed, his peers found it mocking, his father found it deceptively persuasive as he had laughingly told many times but if Olympia had had the experience to recognise it, she would have understood that what his voice had done was made her feel safe. Presently all she recognised was a pleasant complacence sweeping over her even though he had admitted he had seen her romping in the garden. She saw his fingers unwinding her locket from his waistcoat in an assured unhurried fashion, while his eyes were still locked on her face. Once free, he dangled the pendant between them and inspected it -it was only a paste- before pocketing it in his coat. Her eyes widened and she snapped out of the lull. A protest stuck in her throat as her fright came back with a vengeance.
He brought up both of his hands grasping her elbows in a light grip and slowly walked her a few steps backward beyond the shadow of the huge nearby tree until the candlelight from the ballroom illuminated her face. He was trying to see her face! Olympia gasped and tried to turn away. His grip tightened; he would not let her turn even though he was careful not to hurt her. He would drag her into the ballroom to Lady Linton and expose her. Her mother’s locket was in his pocket, she feared he’d blackmail her for it! Her fears completely overcame her, and she started to push away at his chest. He continued to hold her firmly as if her struggle was meaningless. A whimper of dread escaped her lips and he snapped,
‘Be still, child!’
Instinctively responding to the sharp authority in his voice, Olympia ceased her struggle. She kept her head turned away from the light so he wouldn’t see her face clearly. Her eyes remained closed as she pictured how the whole world would soon discover that Olympia Dormer had disgraced herself. How Lord Sollow would sneer at her and break the betrothal. How Aunt Agnes would send her back again -
‘You were terrible at it.’
The gentleman said something. Olympia slowly brought her mind back from her despair and concentrated on what he was saying. It was futile to hide her face any longer. There was nothing to hide. She turned fully towards him trying to understand what he said.
‘Pardon?’ Her voice sounded hoarse to her ears. Her eyebrows were scrunched up at him.
‘A veritable greenhorn.’ He repeated looking down his nose at her.
She waited a while to ensure she was not mistaken in her hearing. Was he reprimanding her? His voice did not sound censorious. But the words meant nothing to her. She looked on blankly. A gloved tip of his finger came up to lightly touched her chin, he leaned in close to her ears to whisper, ‘At your aerobics.’
It took her a few second to understand that he was mocking her skills. Her jaw dropped. She tried to peer into his face to see if he was smiling. The corner of his lips had decidedly kicked up. He was teasing her! In genuine rush of relief, a long sigh escaped her, and she smiled broadly at him. He was not going to be ruin her! She laughed and shook her head at having panicked so easily.
‘Oh, I almost died of fright.’ She exclaimed to him. ‘I thought I was alone, or I would never-’
‘But of course you did not want witnesses to those disgraceful tumbles.’
She was struck speechless. She vaguely realised he was trying to assuage her fright by criticising instead about the science of her tumbles. The feeling of security returned but she realised she couldn’t very well allow his slight to pass. Forgetting everything else and looking indignantly up at him she said, ‘Ha! I have taught it to myself on my own, sir! I’ll let you know; I am the best in my village!’
He drew slightly back from her at her retort in an exaggerated surprise but when he replied his voice was the embodiment of nonchalance. ‘Nonsense’.
‘You don’t believe me?’ She gasped.
He easily said, ‘Oh I believe you may have taught it to yourself. But best in your village?’
She protested, ‘But nobody can do it consecutively!’
He snorted ‘Only three times?’
‘Three times more than you!’ She parried.
‘I beg your pardon?’ He asked in perfect outrage.
She bit her lips to suppress her laughter following this affronted interjection. He let go of her elbows and came forward in an attempt to intimidate her. But when she looked at his eyes from within his mask, she found them narrowed at her in a mocking glare. She giggled. He was very tall and from his attire Olympia judged him to be of the privileged class. The sharp angles of his face were severe, but she found them beautiful. For a brief moment she allowed herself to wonder what he was doing in the garden but at his words she wanted to goad him further. Briefly, she pressed her lips in consideration, entertaining the thought that it was prudent to simply leave when she could. But flinging caution to the wind she gave in to her impulse.
Slowly with an exaggerated patience as if she considered him slow-witted, she repeated, ‘Three times more than you.’
He said haughtily, ‘Are you accusing me of the crime of being ignorant in the arts of aerobics?’
Unperturbed she giggled again and nodded.
The gentleman pressed his lips tightly and said, ‘Five’
‘Five?’
‘I can do five tumbles. What more, I can do them better.’
She huffed disbelievingly, ‘You? A gentleman?’
‘I assure you it is now a part of physical education in schools for us gentlemen.’
‘It is?’ Her eyes rounded.
‘In Prussia.’
‘In Prus-. Are you hoaxing me?’ She demanded.
‘Absolutely not!’
‘But- did you study in Prussia?’ She asked with a frown marring her brows.
‘Unfortunately, my father had no appreciation for gymnastics.’ He replied in all seriousness.
‘Oh!’ She cried gently putting her hands on his midriff and pushing him. ‘You are hoaxing me!’ She seemed not have realised what she had done.
‘Merely trying to redeem us gentlemen in your eyes, miss.’ He said meekly.
Aggravated yet charmed she laughed, ‘Prove it, then.’
The moment the words were out she felt abashed not believing she could have issued such an impudent challenge. To a gentleman of the ton, for even she did not believe he belonged anywhere but the first circles. She looked at his eyes to see if she had offended him. Instead, she saw his lips twitch and he shook his head in a superior manner, ‘My skills are for more discerning eyes. And I am not so lost to propriety-’ He directed her a pointed look, ‘as to forget myself and my surrounding.’
And he had succeeded in making her feel chastened. She was suddenly aware that she had engaged herself in sparring words with a stranger. She was about to apologise and revert back to her original plan of begging him not to disclose what he had seen when she saw him pinching his nose, trying to hide a grin behind his palm. Having again fallen into his trap she sent him an injured look and said heatedly, ‘You, sir, are abominable! You care nothing about propriety!’
‘I assure you, miss-’
‘You are all talk and no action!’ She finished.
His eyes danced. ‘That, I believe, is exactly why one attends parties.’
‘Oh!’ She flung her hands up, maddened by his smooth responses, in a gesture of defeat. But the next moment, looking impishly up at him she leaned forward and said clearly ‘Chicken.’
He made a valiant attempt to school his expression to a grim countenance. After a moment he slowly said, ‘Do I understand correctly that I am being called a coward?’
Mortified beyond measure but unable to back down from the contest she cried, ‘You, sir, started it!’
To this he replied gravely pausing to make up his mind, ‘Now there seems to be only one way to redeem my honour, doesn’t it?’
Olympia’s eyes rounded, ‘You’ll do it?’ No gentlemen of her acquaintance who was as old as he would have engaged her in a banter, let alone agreed to this madness, least of all this gentleman who seemed to be the embodiment of sophistication. She seemed to be in a daze and presently backed down again under a sudden assault of conscience. She shook her head at him and clutched his left forearm in both of her hands.
‘No, no. I was merely funning, sir. I will, of course, take your word for it.’ She finished sincerely. This appeal had no effect on him. ‘It’s too late for that! It’s an affair of honour.’
She said miserably, ‘But I did not mean it!’
With a top lofty shrug, he removed his coat in his answer and held it out to her. Olympia’s mouth formed an ‘o’ but she made no move to collect his coat from him immediately. When he didn’t lower his hand, patiently waiting for her complaisance, she informed him severely that she would not be held responsible if he broke his neck because it was his foolish pride he was trying to save, and not his honour. Finally, she extended her arms to take his coat. It was exceedingly soft and warm from his skin. Next, he removed his gloves and gave it to her. Thus, partially unclothed Olympia saw him go ahead to the clearing where she had been dancing a while ago. He made a great show of stretching his physique in preparation for the private show he was about to grant her. Despite herself, she giggled and she thought he might have uttered good girl. But what he did say clearly out loud was, ‘Now watch and learn, my dear.’
Without quite giving her time to reflect on it, in the blink of an eyes he performed five consecutive tumbles, each time rising high up in the air and landing gracefully- with perfect flips- firmly on his feet. At the end of the last flip, he bowed deeply with a flourish that ought to have looked ridiculous but looked expertly graceful.
Stunned and speechless she could only look at him with her palms pressing against her mouth. He had done it! Because she had challenged him, this gentleman had tumbled in front of her without any compunction. She had not thought he could do it, assured in her belief that giant men were often the clumsiest. Instead, he had not only ignored her whimsical actions, but he had become her partner in crime! She could not help but think that he did not indulge in such abandonment regularly and he had done it for her alone. And she was soon realising that she had found someone, so far above her age and station, who could become a dear friend. A radiant glow came over her wide-open eyes. She looked around them just to be sure that she was still very much situated in Lord Linton’s Garden, outside a house party.
As he walked back towards her, she could not help but notice he walked with the grace of a predator, with sure footed steps. His pantaloons were moulded perfectly against his long legs. His shoulders were wide enough to make his tall frame look well-proportioned although he had the thin frame of a young man. His hair had been, probably dark brown in colour, swept back from his forehead. But now a few wayward strands fell forward in awry, and he was trying to sweep them back again with his fingers. She was still standing stock-still with her hands on her mouth when she was met with his arrogant, ‘Well?’
‘How-? Why-? That was-’ she stammered and then shut up. His eyes danced in merriment and his lips turned into a grin.
‘Magnificent? The best flips you have seen yet?’
She was about betray herself by agreeing with him dumbly but the mockery in his tone pierced her trans. She managed to recover herself sufficiently and gathering her remaining vanity, she retorted,
‘Only because you did not do it in a dress.’ She added cheekily, ‘Sir Peacock.’
‘I say!’ He started putting his gloves back on and parried, ‘You’re a sore loser, Miss Snob.’
She snickered and handed him his coat next without saying anything further. She would not say the words but the awe in her eyes conveyed her admiration to him. He managed to get himself into his coat without her assistance, although he did struggle with it a couple of times before achieving the desired comfort.
Horndale saw her biting her lips and mulling something over in her mind. He wondered what she would say next. Eyeing him sideways with one of her wicked smiles she added, ‘Did you know I can skip stones with as many as 10 rebounds?’
This was the last straw. He laughed out. This minx neither knew her place nor agreed to own it once it had been pointed out to her. When he had followed her out to the gardens hoping to be entertained, he had not bargained for something quite like this. Turning his laughing eyes at her as if he had no cause to back down from such a blatant challenge, he indulged her, declaring unmercifully, ’15’
‘No!’ she cried, looking up at him petulantly. ‘I don’t believe it!’
‘Unfortunately, I don’t see a pond. Or we could-’
‘Oh very well, I believe you,’ Her tone suggested she did anything but. But after a pause she added, ‘I can pelt excellently!’
‘Not better than I can shoot!’ He said without a blink.
She stuck her tongue out at him. Horndale chuckled. She said with a winsome smirk, ‘I can pirouette! I will lay odds you cannot do that.’
At this he flicked her cheek and said, ‘Minx!’
She giggled, ‘So I win?’
‘Hardly, I hold the record in several horseraces.’
In a small voice she admitted to not being a good rider but then with her eyebrows wiggling she asked him if he ever rode a bull. He threw back his head again in laughter and acquiesced that she indeed had won.
Horndale couldn’t recall the last time when he had abandoned all his sense of dignity and made a spectacle of himself. He couldn’t recall the last time when he had enjoyed himself as much as he had tonight with her. This schoolroom chit was as different from the debutantes he had previously met as day is from night. Presently he found her a few feet away from him, bending down and searching for something on the grass.
‘I will give you your mask if you tell me your name.’
She straightened up, ‘I should have known you have it!’ She came closer holding out her hand.
‘Your name.’ He repeated betraying a smile he couldn’t seem to be holding back.
‘But it is unfair! You have already seen my face and I neither have seen you nor know your name.’ she artlessly pouted. No, she was no London debutante, nor skilled in the arts of flirting. She simply had the rare charm of not holding back anything and it drew him towards her. Her laughter was sweet, her voice dulcet and her comportment unconsciously graceful. And her face was a mirror to her heart, and Horndale could guess, she neither knew nor cared about it. Under his intent gaze she urged him again, ‘But I cannot introduce myself, I have not been presented into the society yet, you know!’
He refused her, ‘Hardly relevant here, my dear’. She shivered at the undertone in his voice. Not willing to probe why she felt that way she decided to try another route,
‘I shall accept you’re the better flipper if you return my mask.’
Stubborn brat. ‘It is already quite established, eh?’
But she refused to budge, ‘Can we not do another bargain?’
‘Why won’t you tell me your name, child?’
She eyed him sceptically and said, ‘My aunt asked me not to.’
He narrowed his eyes at her and putting his hand at the side of her waist to bring her closer, wondering why she was reluctant to give him her name. It mattered not for he would eventually obtain it. He leaned towards her ears, inches away from her face. Her loose curls tickled his cheek. He whispered, ‘A kiss, then.’
The moment he said it he regretted it. He felt very much like a libertine. He realised it was too soon. He knew in his bones that even though she was probably as old as all the debutantes to be presented, she was too young for games such as this. She staggered back looking up at him with a strange expression. His face had closed up in self-reproach. He was trying to determine if he had frightened her but found her shaking her head decisively at him. Then within a moment she shattered the blissful interlude of the night when she said, ‘I can’t. I am betrothed, sir.’
Betrothed? Everything in Horndale revolted at this pronouncement. He inhaled sharply. It couldn’t be, she was too young! They had only just met! She was looking at him in an assessing manner, trying to understand his reaction but did not try to shake away his hand at her waist or back away from their closeness.
‘Who? Who is it?’ He asked instinctively his hands tightening at her waist pulling her into his embrace. His mind was rapidly calculating what he could do to amend the situation. His body had stiffened inside as if preparing for battle. In the back of his mind, he perhaps knew his reaction was extraordinary, that he had no cause to feel disappointed and that however entertaining she might have been, she could hardly be called a unique creature or that he would hardly remain interested in her romantically for long. Her innocence would eventually prove tiresome, or she would lose it in which case she would be yet another cynical person. But none of these rational thoughts presented themselves to him at that moment. Outwardly he forced himself to relax not to frighten her off. She seemed not to have realised the violence of his emotions.
‘I cannot tell you; you know that!’ she said smiling cautiously. No, she did not see the sudden torment she had pushed him into. She did not feel the same pull she had on him. But she did not move away from within his arms, her arms lying still on his chest.
He nodded this time, allowing himself to agree with her, to alleviate her caution.
‘Forgive me. I should never have asked for a kiss.’
She lowered her eyes but said nothing. He realised his nerves were absurdly high-strung.
‘What if I told you my name first?’
‘You will not kiss me though, will you?’ she asked to confirm, her voice steady, unafraid. That was good. She should never be afraid of him.
Forcing his lips to take on a roguish tilt he replied, ‘Not unless you want me to.’
She looked up again smiled at that. ‘Then I will hear your name first.’ she finally said.
When she declared that she was betrothed, she had made it impossible for him to reveal his identity. Horndale never showed all his cards until he was sure to win. But it had become of utmost importance for him to know her identity.
‘Reuben.’ He bowed releasing her and held out his hand. She placed her own gloved hand in his and he found them to be small and fragile. The gloves seemed to have been in use for long feeling thin and tattered. The palms of the gloves were damp from the grass from where she had flipped without removing them. He wanted to buy her new ones. Quelling that thought he raised her hand to his lips, bestowed a kiss and murmured, ‘Your eternal servant.’
She was blushing prettily when he let her go. She did not meet his eyes for a while.
‘Reuben?’ she uttered as if to cover her awkwardness and then repeated getting used to his name on her lips, ‘Reuben. I like it!’
He bowed again. She smiled- her mind made up- and curtsied prettily in front of him while her eyes danced in mischievous charm, ‘Mr. Reuben, I present to you Miss Pia, the best tumbler in dresses, the best female stone-skipper and the best bull-rider in all of England!’
And just like that she had unwittingly charmed him back into humour; reservations, plans, and apprehensions thrust back, to be leisurely checked later, into the dark abyss of his mind. He did not correct her assumption that he was not a mister.
‘Pia?’ He thought it an unusual name, decidedly continental but she was unquestionably English. He briefly wondered if it was indeed her name. He wanted to know her family name too.
But soon he was forced to acknowledge that it was indeed her name when at that moment someone else also called ‘Pia’ in a hissing voice, startling her. He stiffened at this untimely intrusion, unaccountably angry that he did not have much time left. The voice seemed to be coming from the entrance of the garden. Horndale quickly wanted to drag her back into the shadows, to shield her but her face suddenly looked pale, and she clutched his hands tightly, ‘My mask, Reuben, please.’
He saw the agitation in her eyes and silently produced the slip of silk from his pantaloons pocket putting it on her face himself with a grim expression.
‘Th-thank you’, she did not seem to be present in the moment any longer, already her mind focused on the approaching person. She was turning away from him. For a brief moment it flashed in his mind that he would never see her again. That was something he would not allow. Giving into his instinct he sharply pulled her back into his arms, embracing her, feeling her fit in perfectly against him. He held her tightly and she looked up at him as if she would stay there but then the moment was shattered when he heard the angry hiss calling her again at a much closer distance. This time she broke and hurried away without looking back. From close by he heard the voice say, ‘What are you doing here?’
He couldn’t clearly hear what she replied but it sounded like fresh air.
‘What, in this cold? Have I not told you, you cannot cavort about like in the country here?’
‘Yes, ma’am’
‘Were you meeting a man here, girl?’ The voice asked sharply.
‘No!’ She sounded anxious. Horndale balled his hands into fists, he wanted to smash something.
‘You better not have disgraced yourself. I will not have you break the betrothal; do you hear me?’
She must have gestured because he heard nothing before the older voice continued peevishly, ‘I am taking you home. I had to plead a headache to come look for you.’ And he heard no more other than receding footsteps.
He let her go, restraining himself from chasing after her again. Maybe it was for the best. Now that she was not in his close proximity, he appallingly recalled the ill-judged thoughts he had entertained and the brash actions he had permitted himself to undertake. Even his mild-mannered father would be in shock if he were to learn that his usually grim offspring had forgotten himself enough to perform tumbles in the garden of Lord Linton for the appeasement of a country miss whose identity he did not know. And, he would furnish a sharp set down to anyone who told him that his ducal heir could have entertained the thought of abducting this dame from her betrothed. He gave a humourless laugh. She was betrothed to someone else and he had no right. She had neither flirted nor hid from him that she was betrothed. But she had not been immune to him, his mind howled. No perhaps, not. But she had been an honest girl, he thought with reluctant pride even though in the next breath he berated himself that he had no right to be proud of her.
Battling these unfamiliar conflicting emotions, he put his hand in his left coat pocket to retrieve the chain he had got from her. His hand came out empty. After a meditative pause his lips curled in appreciation and he muttered under his breath, ‘Sneaky little Miss Pia.’ She must have taken it when he had bid her to hold his coat. His emotions were rather raw, and he needed time to sort through them. He tried to convince himself that it was just a madness of the night and come morning this ardour would lose its fervour. But there was a niggling sensation that he would be proven wrong. He struggled to justify his own reaction in vain. He stood alone in the garden for a long time, and left directly for home. Tomorrow he would find the guest list from Linton. He would attend all parties and balls if he had to until he found her. She had said she had not been presented yet. Surely, she would be presented soon. He would even engage his father’s assistance if needed for the duke knew most people come for the season and knew of the rest. There could not be that many Pia’s in London, even if it proved to be a nickname. Not once it occurred to him that he might fail.
