The Belle of the Regency Ladies and Gents Ball
Lord Nigel Nodcock the third, Earl of Nealingham, stared out at the crowded ballroom with a disgruntled look upon his face.
“I know she is the toast of the ton this season, but really, did her come-out ball have to be such a mad crush? My ensemble will be positively ruined.”
Viscount Frederick Faradiddle regarded his companion dispassionately. His breeches were a brilliant yellow, his topcoat of superfine periwinkle blue, and his shirt points so tall that he could not turn his head.
“I’d count that as a blessing,” he replied, before ambling off to the card room. His finger was itching – that was always a good sign. Ten to one he would find someone playing for high stakes at faro. It would relieve the boredom of another tiresome ball.
Percival Pontefract scanned the ballroom for his ward. It did not take long for her to come to his notice. In fact she almost barrelled into him as she rushed in from the terrace. He grabbed her by the shoulders to steady her.
“Miss Sarah! Remember where you are! This is a ballroom not the stables,” he said disapprovingly.
Sarah stamped her foot. “It’s too tedious by half. I’d rather be in breeches than decked out in all this silk and lace. I need no lectures on decorum from you – I was only trying to have a bit of fun – but I must admit Sir Francis Fornsby is rather a rake.”
“You were out on the terrace with Sir Francis?” Percival’s countenance darkened.
Sarah was certain that if smoke could come out of his ears it would have. She giggled. He was such a bore but setting up his back was a good lark.
“Have you no consideration for your reputation?” continued her grieved guardian.
“Why should it matter a jot? Sir Francis can do as he pleases and no one blinks an eye.”
Percival groaned.
Across the ballroom, Alicia Allingham sat with her aunt by a potted palm. She was unsurprised that no one had asked her to dance. They were all such pretentious posturers. She did not care two figs for the lot of them and would not even have come but for her dear aunt, who had taken on the onerous task of launching Alicia into society. Unfortunately everyone knew of Alicia’s questionable heritage. It was said that her grandfather on her mother’s side was born on the wrong side of the blanket – the byblow of the Duke of Donnington and a serving wench. To make matters worse her mother had been on the stage before marrying her father, a parson of impeccable lineage, if questionable taste. He was as poor as a church mouse, which was another strike against Alicia. All the matrons swept by her with their noses in the air, rushing their daughters past or herding their sons away with a whispered, “She is beautiful I dare say, but quite unsuitable!”
She had, however, caught the eye of one man, wearing the blue of the navy. Captain Conrad Carruthers was captivated. He turned to his friend, Lord Laurence Letterly and asked if he knew whom the vision in pink was.
“Don’t waste your time on the Allingham wench – she hasn’t a feather to fly with.”
“Unlike you, I do not need to marry to secure my fortune,” said Captain Carruthers. “I have a boat load of prize money!”
Letterly groaned. It was not something he appreciated being reminded of. However, there was a lovely young heiress, purported to have ten thousand pounds to her name, who he was setting his sights upon. Her name was Miss Jennifer Jersey, a relation of The Jerseys, and quite a lovely young ingénue.
Miss Jennifer was in close conversation with her dearest friend, Miss Rita Rillington. Rita, though so bookish as to be almost considered a bluestocking, made a delightful confidante. She knew all about the ton, and parties, and could advise Jennifer as to whom to encourage and whom to avoid.
“But Sir Francis has such lovely eyes!” sighed Jennifer! “Are you certain he is a rake?”
“Most decidedly.”
“And Sir Henry Halbinger is so very dashing!”
Rita snorted. “I swear to you that man is a fraud – he is no more a baronet than I am illiterate. If I were to be told he was a highwayman it would not surprise me in the least.”
Jennifer gasped. “Oh! That is too shocking by half!” At that moment she noticed that a very handsome gentleman was regarding her relentlessly from across the floor. She blushed and turned her head away. “Him,” she whispered. “What about him?”
Rita took one look and replied, “Jennifer – what am I to do with you? He is a gazetted fortune hunter.” She hoped Mr Aaron Andrews would arrive soon. He was a worthy young man, a wealthy merchant, and perfect for her young friend. Now if only there were someone who was just right for her.
At that moment their hostess approached with a gentleman in tow.
“Miss Rita, this gentleman is desirous to make your acquaintance,” she said, introducing Lord Daniel Davenport. Rita was hornswaggled from the get go. The man hunted with the Quorn. She pictured him in his red coat and all but swooned. As bookish as she was, like Miss Jennifer she was not impervious to the charms of a consumate Corinthian.
Lady Alyson Amwither knew that all the other ladies were looking scornfully at her gown. Yes, she had fashioned it herself from a voluminous cape her mother had worn as a debutante when styles were quite different. The fabric, though old, was well preserved, and the colour, while not in the latest mode, had struck Lady Alyson as pleasing. Still, it was not easy to face her first season in Town where she had to be accepted wherever she went, being the daughter of an earl, but was mocked behind her back because, due to her father’s improvidence she was penniless. She knew they all said that she couldn’t hope to attract anyone other than a wealthy cit, looking to marry into the peerage. Well, she would show them!
As if in answer to her call, a gentleman approached her and asked her to dance. Mr Blaine Branaugh was the most eligible bachelor in London. All the toplofty ladies of her acquaintance had set their caps at him.
“I would be delighted to dance,” said Alyson, and she smiled in contentment amid the envious stares as he led her out onto the floor.
Miss Sofie Sullivan was decidedly on the shelf. She often heard herself described as long in the tooth, and did not doubt for an instant that her dancing days were over. Had been for many a year. She had wasted the bloom of her youth looking after her ailing parents and she did not regret it for all the earth. Now she had put off her mourning clothes, and at the ripe old age of nine and twenty, was having her first season. Rather than suffer being a wallflower in the ballroom, she decided to make her way to the terrace for some solitude. Unfortunately she was not looking where she was going and bumped into a gentleman whose green striped waistcoat was matched in brilliance only by the blue of his coat and yellow of his breeches. In her shock she burst out laughing.
“Whatever do you find amusing in all this?” Lord Nigel Nodcock cried, smoothing his raiment in distress. “My topcoat is wrinkled, my neck cloth is disarranged, and I fear you have crushed my posy beyond reclaim!”
Not a very prepossessing beginning, but Miss Sofie’s laughter did not abate, and soon Lord Nigel was laughing along with her. And then to his utter amazement he found himself asking her to dance, and to her complete astonishment she found herself accepting.
Upstairs, the belle of the ball was putting the final touches to her toilette before making her grand entrance. Her gown was white satin with a gauze overdress. It was ornamented with little rosebuds in pink and blue. Her ears and throat were adorned with beautifully matched pearls. Her lustrous chestnut locks were pinned up and hung in becoming ringlets about her face. Her lips were parted in excitement, her cheeks flushed in the pleasure of anticipation. She had never looked lovelier.
As she walked to the landing she imagined what lay in store for her this night. The ballroom would be filled with elegant people. Was there to be a gentleman just for her? Someone who would bowl her off her feet? Her mother said she read too many romances and in truth she whiled away many an afternoon with fantasies of heroes and heroines. But this night was for her, and this time she was hoping to find a love for herself.
She laughed at her silly fancies. It was her ball! She should enjoy it and relish in the attention of all the young men! She was announced and tripped daintily down the stairs and as she arrived at the bottom realised that all eyes were upon her. She smiled prettily and curtsied, and then her father led her out upon the floor.
After that first dance she was never in want of a partner. The evening passed in a whirlwind of music and laughter, colour and light. Not one gentleman impressed her over another and she did not care in the least. She just revelled in the attention and in the joy of the occasion. But then suddenly it happened – as she was led back to the side of the dance floor she chanced to look towards the entrance of the card room just as a gentleman walked through the door. Their eyes met and at that moment it was as if there were no other people in the room.
In a twinkling he was by her side, and introductions were being made.
“Miss Cynthia Corningham, Viscount Frederick Faradiddle.”
After their dance Frederick stayed by Cynthia’s side. She declined all other invitations to dance, and when the viscount asked her again, she answered in the only way that was available to her.
“I must not as I have shown that I no longer dance.”
“Then will you not join me upon the terrace?”
“It would be my pleasure,” she whispered, her heart thumping unevenly.
They slipped out into the night. The sky was rich with stars, but they did not notice. All that Cynthia was aware of was the viscount by her side. As they reached the balustrade Frederick turned to her.
“I have been a gambler all my life,” he said softly, “and I have no intention of stopping now.”
She smiled and that was all the encouragement he needed. He closed the space between them and took her hand in his.
“Dearest Cynthia,” he said, “I’ll lay odds you know what I am about to say.”
“Those I love call me Cindy,” she said, smiling all the more.
At that he took her in his arms and kissed her.
“I knew it was my lucky day,” he said, at long last.
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” said Cindy. “This was meant to be.”
As they stood on the terrace in each other’s arms, the moon shining brightly upon them, all the other Regency ladies and gents at the ball crowded by the terrace windows and looked on.
“Not a bad idea,” said Percival Pontefract.
Everyone else nodded in agreement.
~*~
Happy Birthday Cindy from all your esisters!!!!!!!!
We love you to bits! Have the best day ever!!!!!!!