The Danbury Scandals by Mary Nichols Read Free Book Online Page B

Lord and Lady Markham stood at the entrance to the ballroom, receiving
their guests. His lordship had declined to wear costume, but her ladyship was
dressed as Nell Gwynn. She was short and plump, with a mischievous smile and
laughing brown eyes. She kissed Mrs Ryfield on both cheeks, dropped an
imperceptible curtsy to James and held out her hands to the girls. ‘How nice to
see you. Now go on and enjoy yourselves; if you don’t get handsome offers
before the night is out, I shall want to know why.’
    Mark took
Maryanne’s arm and they moved forward into the ballroom where they were just in
time to join a cotillion. It was not until the dance had finished and he
escorted her to a seat that she was able to look at her surroundings. The
ballroom was enormous, with a high domed ceiling and long windows, draped with
velvet curtains which were drawn back so that the light from hundreds of
candelabra shone out on to a terrace and garden. An orchestra played on a dais
at the end of the room and everywhere there were banks of flowers. The costumes
delighted and amused her; kings, queens, Greek gods and goddesses, harlequins,
coachmen and gypsy maidens abounded. And sprinkled among them were the scarlet,
blue and green of dress uniforms.
    In spite of
their masks, Maryanne recognised many of the guests as people to whom she had
already been introduced: young Lord Brandon in the full dress uniform of a
captain of the Guards, plump, red-faced Lord Boscombe, and Caroline’s
particular friends, the Misses Georgiana and Henrietta Halesworth.
    ‘Caroline is
happy,’ Mark observed dryly, seeing his sister surrounded by an animated group
of admirers. ‘And while she holds court I can have you all to myself.’
    ‘I am rather
hot,’ she said, wondering why she found this declaration unnerving. Mark’s
attentiveness had become more and more like serious courting since they had
arrived in London and he was becoming a little possessive. ‘Would you fetch me
a glass of cordial, please?’
    ‘Of course.’ He
went off on his errand, leaving her to look round at the glittering assembly.
The noise of conversation and laughter buzzed all around her, almost drowning
out the orchestra as everyone greeted everyone else and commented on their
costumes. It died away as the musicians began to play a waltz and the men
searched out their partners.
    ‘Miss Paynter,
may I present Mr Adam Saint-Pierre? He has asked particularly to meet you.’
    Maryanne turned
in surprise to find Lady Markham at her side, accompanied by another of her
guests, who bowed low over her hand. Like Mark, he was dressed as a highwayman
and was equally slim and dark-haired, but somewhat taller. She gave a gasp of
astonishment when he lifted his head and she found herself looking into warm
brown eyes flecked with gold. ‘Mr Daw!’
    ‘ Mam’selle is mistaken,’ he said in a heavy French accent, though there was the light of
laughter in his eyes which totally mesmerised her. ‘I am Adam Saint-Pierre. You
geev me the plaisir of thees dance, non ?’ Before she could answer
him, he had taken her hand, raised her to her feet and whirled her away.
    ‘Mr Daw, I must
protest...’ Her heart was thumping against her ribs, and she was thankful for her
mask because she knew she was blushing to the roots of her hair.
    He looked down
into her upturned face and smiled. ‘How did you recognise me? I thought I was
well disguised.’
    ‘Your eyes,’
she said. ‘And that little scar.’
    He brushed away
her unconscious reminder of a time he would rather forget and smiled at her.
Memories of the bloodshed at Salamanca did not belong in a London ballroom.
‘Not my French accent?’
    She laughed
suddenly and allowed herself to relax. He danced well and she did not need to
think about the steps as she followed his every move as if they were one being.
‘You have no accent, so why pretend you have?’
    ‘The ladies
usually like it.’
    ‘What are you
doing here?’
    ‘Dancing