Wicked in the Regency Ballroom. Margaret McPhee
subtle change beneath her fingers. ‘Oh, don’t be like that, Madeline.’ She removed her hand from Madeline’s hair. ‘He’s a baron. He has a fine house here in London and a country seat in Kent. Were you to marry him, you would want for nothing. He would take care of your every need.’
Madeline looked with growing disbelief at her mother.
‘My daughter would be Lady Farquharson. Lady Farquharson! Imagine the faces of my sewing group’s ladies if I could tell them that. No more embarrassment. No more making excuses for you.’
‘Mama,’ said Madeline, ‘it is not marriage that Lord Farquharson has in mind for me.’
Mrs Langley laughed. ‘Tush! Don’t be so silly, girl. If we but handle him properly, I’m sure that we can catch him for you.’
Madeline placed her hands over her mother’s. ‘Mama, I do not wish to catch him,’ she said as gently as she could.
Amelia Langley’s eyes widened in exasperation. She snatched her hands from beneath her daughter’s and narrowed her lips. ‘But you’ll have him all the same. Such stuff and nonsense as I’ve ever heard. Madeline Langley turning her nose up at a baron! I’ll bring Lord Farquharson to make you an offer if it’s the last thing I do, so help me God. And you, miss, will do as you are told for once in your life!’
Chapter Two
The ballroom was ablaze with candlelight from three massive crystal-dropped chandeliers and innumerable wall sconces. The wooden floorboards had been scraped and polished until they gleamed, and the tables and chairs set around the periphery of the room were in the austere neo-classical style of Mr Sheraton. The hostess, Lady Gilmour, was holding court in a corner close to the band and its delightful music. Despite the heat, the French doors and windows that lined the south side of the room remained closed. It was, after all, still only February and the year had been uncommonly cold. Indeed, frost was thick upon the ground and the night air held an icy chill. With the Season not yet started, London was still quiet, but Lady Gilmour had managed to gather the best of London’s present high society into her townhouse. Everybody who was anybody was there, squashed into the noisy bustle of the ballroom, and spilling out into the hallway and up the sweep of the staircase.
Mrs Langley was in her element as Lord Farquharson had managed to obtain an invitation for her entire family. She was making the most of the evening and taking every opportunity to inveigle as many introductions as possible. Mr Langley, having found an old friend, had slipped discreetly away, leaving his wife to her best devices.
‘Lady Gilmour,’ gushed Mrs Langley, ‘how delightful to meet you. May I introduce my younger daughter, Angelina? This is her first Season and we have such high hopes for her. And this is my elder daughter, Madeline. She is such a dear girl,’ said Mrs Langley. ‘She has engaged the interest of a certain highly regarded gentleman. I cannot say more at the minute other than …’ Mrs Langley leaned towards Lady Gilmour in a conspiratorial fashion and lowered her voice to a stage whisper ‘… we are expectant of receiving an offer in the very near future.’
Madeline, who had been smiling politely at Lady Gilmour, cringed and turned a fiery shade of red. ‘Mama—’
‘Tush, child. I’m sure that Lady Gilmour can be trusted with our little secret.’ Mrs Langley trod indelicately on Madeline’s slipper. Her smile could not have grown any larger when Lady Gilmour offered to introduce Angelina to a small group of other débutantes. Looking fresh and pretty in a ribboned white creation that had cost her poor papa a considerable sum he could not afford, Angelina followed in Lady Gilmour’s wake.
‘Keep up, Madeline,’ whispered Mrs Langley as Madeline trailed at the rear. ‘What a perfect opportunity for Angelina.’
Less than fifteen minutes later, Angelina’s dance card for the evening was filled. A crowd of eager gentlemen stood ready to sweep the divine Miss Angelina off her feet. Mrs Langley’s head swam dizzy with excitement, so much so that she clear forgot all about her plans for Madeline and Lord Farquharson. ‘Oh, I do wish your father was here to see this. Where is Mr Langley?’
‘He’s talking to Mr Scott,’ answered Madeline, happy that her father had managed to escape.
‘Typical!’ snorted Mrs Langley. ‘Angelina is proving to be a success beyond our wildest dreams and her father’s too busy with his own interests to even notice.’ Mrs Langley shook her head sadly, but her spirits could not remain depressed for long, especially when Angelina took to the floor with Lord Richardson, who was the second son of an earl. ‘La, is she not the most beautiful child on the floor?’ demanded Mrs Langley, clutching at Madeline’s hand.
‘Yes, Mama,’ agreed Madeline with a soft smile. ‘She is indeed beautiful.’
‘And elegant,’ added Mrs Langley.
‘Elegant, too,’ said Madeline.
‘And graceful.’
‘Yes.’
Mrs Langley looked fit to burst with pride. ‘That’s my baby out there, my beautiful baby. Oh, how it brings it all back. I was just the same when I was eighteen.’
Mrs Langley and Madeline were so taken up with Angelina’s progress around the dance floor that they did not notice the arrival of Lord Farquharson.
‘Mrs Langley, Miss Langley,’ he said, lingering a little too long over Madeline’s hand. ‘I hope I’m not too late to claim a few dances from the delightful Miss Langley.’
Madeline’s lips tightened. ‘I’m afraid I’m not dancing tonight, my lord. I twisted my ankle earlier in the day.’
Mrs Langley drew her a scowl before announcing, ‘I’m sure that your ankle is much repaired, Madeline. And a dance with Lord Farquharson shall not tax you too much.’
‘But—’ started Madeline.
‘Madeline.’ Her mother threw her the ‘wait until I get you home’ look.
Grudgingly Madeline held the card out to Lord Farquharson, who smiled and tutted and lingered over the empty spaces beside each dance name.
‘Can it be that Miss Langley has kept her dance card free for my sake? Is it too much for my heart to hope?’
Mrs Langley cooed her appreciation of the sugary compliment.
Madeline examined a scuff on the floor and waited until he pressed the card back into her hand. It was now warm and slightly damp to the touch. She held it gingerly by the edge and scanned to see which dances he had selected. A lively Scotch reel and, heaven help her, the waltz!
Lord Farquharson’s slim white fingers took hold of one of her hands. ‘Just in the nick of time,’ he said as the band struck up. ‘I believe this is my dance, Miss Langley.’ And with that he whisked her out to join the lines of bodies upon the floor.
The dance had a nightmarish quality about it. Not only was Madeline thrust into the limelight, a place in which she was never happy, but she had Lord Farquharson squeezing her hand, whispering in her ear and peering down the bodice of her dress for the entirety of the time. She was perforce obliged to smile politely and skip daintily about, as if she were enjoying the occasion immensely. It seemed to Madeline that a piece of music had never lasted so long. She progressed down the set, birling in the arms of every man in turn, each one granting her but a brief respite from Farquharson’s company, for no sooner had she thought it than the dance had led her to meet in the middle of the set with Lord Farquharson once more. At long last the music ceased, and Lord Farquharson returned her to her mother. His eyes glittered with something that Madeline did not understand.
‘She has the grace of a swan,’ he said to Mrs Langley.
Mrs Langley, who had seen Madeline tread on Lord Farquharson’s toes no less than four times, miss several steps, and drop her handkerchief halfway through, marvelled that a gentleman could be so forgiving of her elder daughter’s failings. ‘Dear Lord Farquharson, you are