the while Mira laughed and joked, she had a dismal awareness that she was telling lies. Her green eyes flew from time to time to the marquess’s face, seeking reassurance, but he looked blandly back, and she did not know that he was well aware that the real source of the gossip was sitting in the opera house at that very moment.
Lady Jansen fantasized about the marquess all through the last act. He had not called at her box because he did not know she was present, or so she persuaded herself. She should have arrived at the beginning of the performance. But there was always the opera ball. He would ask her to dance. She would float in his arms. She would fascinate him with her conversation, surely so mature and wise compared to that of Mira Markham. Like most rather stupid, humorless, and selfish people, Lady Jansen prided herself on her own wisdom and sound good sense. Men did not like a bluestocking, admittedly, but she was firmly convinced that a good figure and gentlewomanly wisdom were a nigh irresistible combination.
She was relieved when the “tiresome” performance was over and one of the finest voices in the whole of Britain and Europe was finally silent.
Ordering Mrs. Anderson curtly to carry her fan and shawl, she made her way to the ballroom.
To her annoyance the first dance was claimed by some elderly colonel who bored her with military matters when they met during the figure of the dance. During the promenade she reminded him gently that talk of wars and battles was not suitable for gentle ears, to which the elderly colonel glared at her and said, “Forgot. Beg pardon. Trouble is, I was talking to a vastly intelligent girl the other night, Miss Mira Markham. Forgot the rest of you were dim as parish lamps.”
With irritation coloring her cheeks Lady Jansen sat down again. But her heart surged as the marquess approached her and asked her to dance. And it was the waltz. For a few moments she was so wrapped up in rapturous dreams of being the next Marchioness of Grantley that it was with a start she realized he was actually talking to her. “Why did you spread that gossip about Mira Markham?” he was asking.
Her eyes flickered uneasily. Useless to deny it. Mrs. Gardener would say firmly that she had been the source. She manufactured a light laugh. “It was too amusing an on-dit, my lord, and Mira Markham has already been socially damned.”
“I had your word you would not gossip,” he said roundly. “Fortunately no one believes the gossip. My mother wishes you to cease calling on her. You nearly ruined the reputation of one young lady.”
She could not think what to say. She felt absolutely wretched. Misery made her movements wooden. He did not promenade with her, but as soon as the waltz was finished turned and walked abruptly away.
Then she found herself confronted by a very angry Mrs. Gardener. “How cruel of you to tell me such lies,” cried Mrs. Gardener in her shrill, piercing voice. And then over her shoulder Lady Jansen saw that the dowager marchioness of Grantley had arrived.
“I did not lie,” she said. “Come with me and hear the truth from his own mother.” Not only did Mrs. Gardener follow her to where the marchioness sat but a curious little group of fellow gossipmongers tagged along as well.
Lady Jansen confronted the elderly dowager marchioness. “Do tell Mrs. Gardener, dear Marchioness, that your son did admit to going on a curricle race with Mira Markham as his tiger.”
It was between dances. Her voice carried. Suddenly it seemed as if everyone was listening avidly. The dowager’s old voice was as clear as a bell. “Nonsense,” she said. “I have never heard such a farrago of lies. Be off with you. Our friendship is at an end.” She looked about her and shook her head. “Poor woman. It’s the laudanum, you know. Addles the wits.”
Mrs. Anderson, standing behind her employer, felt a surge of pure glee. Heads
Lady Jansen fantasized about the marquess all through the last act. He had not called at her box because he did not know she was present, or so she persuaded herself. She should have arrived at the beginning of the performance. But there was always the opera ball. He would ask her to dance. She would float in his arms. She would fascinate him with her conversation, surely so mature and wise compared to that of Mira Markham. Like most rather stupid, humorless, and selfish people, Lady Jansen prided herself on her own wisdom and sound good sense. Men did not like a bluestocking, admittedly, but she was firmly convinced that a good figure and gentlewomanly wisdom were a nigh irresistible combination.
She was relieved when the “tiresome” performance was over and one of the finest voices in the whole of Britain and Europe was finally silent.
Ordering Mrs. Anderson curtly to carry her fan and shawl, she made her way to the ballroom.
To her annoyance the first dance was claimed by some elderly colonel who bored her with military matters when they met during the figure of the dance. During the promenade she reminded him gently that talk of wars and battles was not suitable for gentle ears, to which the elderly colonel glared at her and said, “Forgot. Beg pardon. Trouble is, I was talking to a vastly intelligent girl the other night, Miss Mira Markham. Forgot the rest of you were dim as parish lamps.”
With irritation coloring her cheeks Lady Jansen sat down again. But her heart surged as the marquess approached her and asked her to dance. And it was the waltz. For a few moments she was so wrapped up in rapturous dreams of being the next Marchioness of Grantley that it was with a start she realized he was actually talking to her. “Why did you spread that gossip about Mira Markham?” he was asking.
Her eyes flickered uneasily. Useless to deny it. Mrs. Gardener would say firmly that she had been the source. She manufactured a light laugh. “It was too amusing an on-dit, my lord, and Mira Markham has already been socially damned.”
“I had your word you would not gossip,” he said roundly. “Fortunately no one believes the gossip. My mother wishes you to cease calling on her. You nearly ruined the reputation of one young lady.”
She could not think what to say. She felt absolutely wretched. Misery made her movements wooden. He did not promenade with her, but as soon as the waltz was finished turned and walked abruptly away.
Then she found herself confronted by a very angry Mrs. Gardener. “How cruel of you to tell me such lies,” cried Mrs. Gardener in her shrill, piercing voice. And then over her shoulder Lady Jansen saw that the dowager marchioness of Grantley had arrived.
“I did not lie,” she said. “Come with me and hear the truth from his own mother.” Not only did Mrs. Gardener follow her to where the marchioness sat but a curious little group of fellow gossipmongers tagged along as well.
Lady Jansen confronted the elderly dowager marchioness. “Do tell Mrs. Gardener, dear Marchioness, that your son did admit to going on a curricle race with Mira Markham as his tiger.”
It was between dances. Her voice carried. Suddenly it seemed as if everyone was listening avidly. The dowager’s old voice was as clear as a bell. “Nonsense,” she said. “I have never heard such a farrago of lies. Be off with you. Our friendship is at an end.” She looked about her and shook her head. “Poor woman. It’s the laudanum, you know. Addles the wits.”
Mrs. Anderson, standing behind her employer, felt a surge of pure glee. Heads
Similar Books
