Marquesses at the Masquerade(88)
“But where is Papa off to?” Amanda murmured, letting the curtain at the window drop.
Lucy had no idea what events graced Lord Tyne’s social schedule for the evening, but Amanda was at the age where adults fascinated her in a way they didn’t interest younger children. To little Lady Sylvie, the marquess was simply Papa. He had sweets in his pocket or a scold to deliver. His other adult obligations were mysterious, vaguely annoying details to Sylvie.
Amanda, by contrast, was intrigued with her father’s adult responsibilities.
What was a marquess, historically speaking?
What did the House of Lords do all evening that Papa had to be there so late?
Why did that simper-y Mrs. Holymere wiggle her fingers like that at Papa in the park?
Lucy knew exactly why the pretty widow wiggled her fingers—and her hips—at the marquess. He was too good-looking, too titled, too wealthy, and—worst of all—too decent not to gain the notice of some wiggly widow in the very near future.
So Lucy would do for the girls what she could while she was governess here, little though that might be.
“We can hope your father is enjoying a social outing,” Lucy said. For a change. If Lord Tyne were one-tenth as attuned to polite society as he was to the politics of the realm, he’d have four engagements each night.
“How will I be invited to tea dances if Papa has no social connections?” Amanda asked, flouncing onto the sofa. “I won’t have any callers, I won’t be granted vouchers to Almack’s.”
“You’d best prepare yourself for holy orders,” Lucy said. “Start memorizing the New Testament, because you will need the comfort of all four Evangelists in your endless old age.”
Amanda’s chin came up in a gesture reminiscent of her father. “I’ll go to tea dances when I’m fourteen. I’m thirteen now.”
Lucy took the place beside her, because this great eagerness to grow up, to be treated as a young lady, was normal. For a marquess’s daughter to be normal, rather than hopelessly spoiled or regularly hysterical, was rare in Lucy’s experience.
“You are thirteen years and three months,” Lucy said. “Give your Papa some time to find his bearings. He is not a man prone to precipitous action. Your aunts have many connections.”
Amanda made a face, such as Sylvie made when somebody forgot to sprinkle cinnamon and sugar on her porridge.
“The aunties have babies. I’m never having babies. Aunt Eleanor says children ruin a woman’s figure.”
Amanda had only the merest beginnings of a figure, thank heavens. “Your aunt is approaching her fourth confinement. She is entitled to be testy. Will you read tonight?”
“You can’t teach me more card games?”
Of course Amanda would ask that tonight. “I’m fatigued, Amanda. Perhaps another time. If the weather’s fine tomorrow and your lessons go well, we can picnic in the park.”
“With Syl-vie,” Amanda said, martyrdom oozing from all three syllables. “I am the elder by six years, but I never go anywhere without her. I can’t wait to put up my hair.”
“Find a book, write to a cousin, experiment at your vanity with your combs and hair ribbons.” Lucy half-hugged Amanda and rose. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night, Miss Fletcher.” Amanda remained on the tufted sofa, a precocious child left all alone for yet another evening.
Lucy knew how that felt. “Would you care to join your father some morning for an early outing in the park?”
Amanda had grown two inches over the winter, which meant she’d become too tall for her pony. His lordship had grumbled when Lucy had pointed out that the hems of Lady Amanda’s habit nearly dragged on the ground, but he’d also come home the next day leading a dainty gray mare named Snowdrop.
“An early outing?” Amanda twiddled the gold tassel of a purple velvet pillow. “How early?”
“Dawn, when the mist is rising from the Serpentine, and the day is full of possibilities. All the fashionable gentlemen and not a few ladies ride at dawn.”
Amanda set aside the pillow and crossed to her vanity. “Sylvie will never get up that early.”
To be included in a family outing, she would. “She’d need a nap if she managed to waken at dawn.”
Amanda pulled the black ribbon from her right braid. “She hates taking naps.”
“While I love a refreshing respite in the middle of the afternoon. Those being in short supply, I’ll bid you good night.”
Before Amanda could ask for help arranging her hair, choosing a book, or deciding on a poem to memorize, Lucy slipped out the door. The hour was early by fashionable standards, but for a governess who had to change into a costume and find her way to a masquerade ball, time was of the essence.
*
The masquerade was becoming noisy, the inevitable result of polite society donning masks and then partaking of the mayhem passing for mine host’s lemon punch. In the ballroom itself, Boxhaven’s mama and grandmama would prevent outright debauchery, but in the garden shadows and unused parlors, mischief would abound.
Under the minstrels’ gallery, a centurion leered down the bodice of a shepherdess in the manner of centurions from time immemorial. A portly satyr danced by with his arms about Good Queen Bess. The lady’s skirts would likely keep her horned partner from living down to the potential of his costume on the very dance floor.