Miss Weston's Masquerade

She was jerked out of her brown study by Miss Fox enquiring if she should fetch Miss Weston from her room.

‘If you would be so kind, Araminta.’ Lady Lydford turned to her guests. ‘I am sure our friends will be sensible of a young lady’s feelings and not allude, in any way, to the distressing circumstances.’

Cassandra picked up her skirts and tiptoed out of the door behind the screen. She found Miss Fox waiting for her at the head of the grand staircase which swept up in a double curve from the ballroom.

‘Could you hear all that passed?’ Miss Fox paused to tease out one of Cassandra’s newly-dressed curls high on her forehead. ‘You look quite charming, my dear,’ she added, nodding with approbation at the high-waisted, high-necked sprigged muslin gown. ‘Just arrange your shawl a little lower on your arms. There, that should have given the old pussies time to smooth down their fur before your appearance.’

When Cassandra looked at her in astonishment at her frankness, she added drily, ‘If you had spent as many hours in the company of clerical wives as I have, my dear, you, too, would be an expert on gossiping middle-aged ladies.’

Cassandra’s heart was thumping uncomfortably by the time she was ushered into the salon by Miss Fox, and she felt her colour rise under the scrutiny of the assembled ladies.

Her embarrassment and the effort of remembering not to stride in her unaccustomed skirts kept her almost tongue-tied as the presentations were made, and she sank down gratefully at her godmother’s side and accepted a cup of tea.

‘From Ware in Hertfordshire, ma’am,’ she said, replying to the Naval Attaché’s wife, while trying not to listen to Mrs Spencer whispering to her neighbour.

‘Such a pretty child, and quite nice style.’

She caught her godmother’s eye and received a small nod of approval, which gave her the courage to respond quietly and calmly to the unexceptionable questions the ladies were asking her.

She was just asking her godmother’s permission to join a party driving into the country the next day, when the major domo announced, ‘The Earl of Lydford, my lady.’

Cassandra felt herself go pale, but fortunately the ladies were far more interested in the eligible Earl of Lydford than in her reaction to him.

He stood just inside the room, self-assured and extremely handsome in a coat of deep blue broadcloth, his long legs encased in a pair of white trousers which Cassandra knew were new. His waistcoat was pale yellow silk with a broad grey stripe that she had helped him choose in Lyons, and at his throat, the snowy folds of his cravat were impeccable.

Nicholas strolled across to bend over his mother’s hand, calmly ignoring the frigid glint in her eye. ‘Mama, if I had any inkling you were entertaining so many charming ladies, I would have hurried home sooner.’ He began to bow to the ladies in turn. ‘Mrs Spencer, it must be at least two years since I had the pleasure, Lady Hartley, I trust I find you in good health. Miss Fox, I was sorry to miss you at breakfast. I must admit to rising late after yesterday’s journey.’

Cassandra watched him making his rounds of the room, leaving the ladies flushed and fluttering in his wake. His technique, she realised, was to make each and every one of them believe that were it not for the inconvenient existence of their husbands, he would be slain by their charms.

‘Mountebank,’ she whispered as, finally, he stopped before her, eyes twinkling.

He bent low over her hand. ‘At last, Miss Weston. Or may I call you Cassandra, for we are as good as cousins? Last time we met, I was in a ditch rescuing your puppy, was I not?’

‘Up a tree, and it was my kitten,’ Cassandra replied tightly.

‘Of course, it was. May I sit here?’ Not receiving a reply, he sat down anyway and accepted a cup of tea from his mother while assiduously avoiding her eye. ‘Even at the tender age of fifteen, I was your devoted slave.’ Nicholas gave her a sudden grin which made her heart lurch.

‘So far from being my slave,’ she countered, ‘you did nothing but pull my pigtails and twit me about my freckles!’

The ladies laughed at these childish reminiscences, but Lady Lydford cut in hastily. ‘Enough of this, Nicholas, you must not tease Cassandra. You forget, she is no longer a child of eight, but a young lady.’

‘There is no danger of that, Mama,’ he said smoothly, turning his attention to Miss Fox as the colour rose hectically in Cassandra’s cheek.

The infuriating man! Cassandra set down her cup with a sharp click, and schooled her face so as not to scowl. What game was he playing? He had obviously not been expected at this afternoon’s tea party, that much was obvious from Lady Lydford’s reaction, however well she covered up her irritation.

But if she thought Nicholas had done with his sparring, she was mistaken. ‘Another macaron, Cassandra?’ He offered her the plate with a warm smile.

‘Thank you, no,’ Cassandra replied coolly, trying to think of a safe, neutral topic of conversation. Finding none, she lapsed into silence.

‘Forgive me,’ he said in a slightly lowered voice. ‘My teasing has discommoded you.’

‘Not at all, my

lord.’ She was pleased at the indifference in her tone. ‘I am sure you were only humouring me, for you think of me as a child, one who was an inconvenient brat in the past, perhaps?’

‘My dear Cassandra, now you are threatening to discommode me.’ She had certainly succeeding in disturbing some of his air of assurance. There was a glint in his eye that was not all amusement, and one finger tapped the arm of the sofa.

‘Oh, no, my lord,’ Cassandra protested sweetly. ‘Why, I declare nothing could discommode you, not raging torrents, nor foreign footpads.’