A Most Improper Proposal. Molly Ann Wishlade
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it had even been rumoured, recently turned away the mighty Duke of Wellington, the nation’s hero, because the gentleman was wearing trousers instead of the required knee breeches and because he had arrived at the club after eleven o’clock.
The broad grin that graced Lady Watson’s face brought her immediate comfort.
‘Have I not told you that you have nothing to fear from that coven?’
Isabella gasped at the derogatory term but hid a smile behind her fan.
‘I must admit, Lady Watson, that the ladies in question do remind me somewhat of the witches in Macbeth.’ It was wicked to speak about others in such a way but Lady Watson brought out her mischievous side.
Lady Watson smiled and winked. ‘Do you mean in the way that they act like puppeteers of London society, my dear, making or breaking people’s reputations through their collective manipulation?’
Isabella inclined her head.
‘I wish I knew exactly how you persuaded them to allow me to accompany you to Almack’s, Lady Watson. I mean… so many have tried but failed.’ She peered coyly up at the great lady from beneath her lashes.
‘A lady never tells, Isabella’ – Lady Watson tapped her closed fan against her lips once before continuing – ‘but feel secure in the knowledge that everyone has secrets and that I know a few that some of the lovely patronesses… despite their insistence on members of Almack’s having untarnished reputations… would prefer not to have bandied about in public.’ With that, Lady Watson winked again, leaving Isabella wondering at the power that the seemingly frail old lady wielded in London society. She was fearless and Isabella’s admiration for her filled her chest so that she had to resist throwing her arms around Lady Watson and hugging her tightly.
As they passed the spacious supper room to their left, Isabella could already hear the musicians warming up in the rooms above. Her stomach fluttered in anticipation and she pressed her free hand over it. Even though she worried about being an object of mockery or disdain, she could not help but be caught up in the collective excitement and buoyancy that permeated the atmosphere at the club.
‘It will be another busy evening at Almack’s, Lady Watson.’
‘Certainly, dear,’ the old lady replied. ‘And I hope to see you enjoying the dancing well into Thursday morning.’
Isabella inclined her head and suppressed her reply. She knew that any gentleman who claimed her for a dance would likely be a rake who was under the impression that she was his for the taking. In the past, to her mortification, she knew that certain young men of the ton had even danced with her as a wager, just so that they could claim to have touched the flesh of the disgraceful, wanton Miss Adams.
They climbed the grand stone staircase and Isabella was reminded once again of Cinderella as she ran from the prince and lost her glass slipper. How unfortunate to finally find your prince then to be forced to tear yourself away from him just as he was falling in love with you. What if they had not found each other again? Mayhap Cinderella was lucky to have found him at all. Isabella certainly doubted that she would ever find such happiness, let alone a prince.
‘What is it, Isabella?’ Lady Watson questioned. ‘Are you sure you’re warm enough?’
‘Yes, thank you, Lady Watson. I really am quite comfortable.’
‘I do hope that you haven’t caught an ague after being in a damp dress this afternoon.’ Lady Watson shook her head and tucked her companion’s hand more securely into the crook of her arm.
At the door to the ballroom, Lady Watson paused to catch her breath. ‘Now, dear, remember: head up, shoulders back and hear only what is favourable.’
Isabella nodded.
‘We will have a good time, my dear, no matter what.’
‘No matter what,’ Isabella repeated, though she felt her serenity of just moments ago begin to drift away from her like clouds on a breeze and she wondered if she would ever feel completely at ease amongst London’s high society.
* * * *
The ballroom was a truly magnificent sight. It was almost one hundred feet in length and forty wide, and when fully illuminated it was like a night sky full of stars. The walls were divided with panels and paired pilasters and decorated with festoons and paterae, giving the rooms a Roman feel. Isabella felt that this was appropriate as the decadence enjoyed by many of le Beau Monde who attended Almack’s, did echo that of the ancient Romans she had read about.
Walking into the ballroom was a bit like walking the gangplank, then plunging into shark-infested waters. Isabella watched as they started to circle, clearly the scent of her blood and the nervous thrumming of her heart had alerted them to her presence. She pressed the hand holding her fan against her stomach so that it rested like a shield in front of her body.
‘Ah!’ Lady Watson exclaimed. ‘My dear Lord Howden. How are you?’
The elderly gentleman took Lady Watson’s hand and bowed low, brushing his withered lips against her fingers. He reminded Isabella of a balding old crow in his black jacket and breeches, with his bony legs clearly outlined in their silk stockings. At any moment she could imagine him stretching out his arms like wings and strutting around the room, bobbing his head backwards and forwards in the funny way crows do.
‘I am very well, Lady Watson, and all the better for seeing you.’
Lord Howden leered as he turned to Isabella and openly eyed the low neckline of her gown. She flickered her eyes over the dome of his head where his sparse hair had been greasily combed from one ear to the other in a futile attempt to conceal his expanding scalp.
She bobbed a curtsey and he took her hand, then leant over and kissed it more sloppily than he had Lady Watson’s. Isabella fought the urge to pull her hand away and frowned with dismay at the damp patch his kiss had left on her silk glove. She yearned to wipe it against her dress to rid herself of his drool but such behaviour would not be proper or comely.
‘You must save me a dance later on, Miss Adams.’ His wolfish grin seemed all the more sinister because of the missing teeth and the foul stench of his breath. That smell would now be clinging to her glove.
‘Of course, Lord Howden. It would be an honour.’ That I dream not of…
‘So lovely,’ he muttered, then turned and walked away, lifting his right leg slightly as he unabashedly adjusted his manhood.
‘An honour, dear?’ Lady Watson smiled.
‘I am afraid not, Lady Watson.’ Isabella shook her head. ‘I have tried to show the gentleman good manners…’ She wondered if it would be awful of her to confess her thoughts, but Lady Watson was not easily shocked. ‘However, I cannot bear to dance with him for he whispers the most awful things into my ear, then claims that it is his age and that his mind wanders.’
Lady Watson laughed. ‘Yes, dear, like his hands. Lord Howden has not altered in the sixty years during which I have been of his acquaintance. Outliving three younger wives and dallying with countless mistresses has done nothing to dull his ardour. I thought that he would fall head first into your gown the way he was leaning over to peer down your neckline.’
‘Lady Watson!’
Despite her shock, Isabella laughed, for the old lady’s wicked humour was most infectious.
As they approached a circle of ladies, Isabella felt her laughter die in her throat. Lady Watson coughed and the nearest two turned and quickly assessed the new arrivals, evaluating hair, clothing and jewellery in one sweeping glance.
‘Lady Watson.’ Lady Herridge bowed her head in acknowledgment. ‘And the lovely Miss Adams.’ Though the lady smiled, her tone was icy and her pale-blue eyes were hard as flint.
‘Well, ladies…’ Lady Watson addressed the small circle of women in their colourful evening gowns and headwear. They reminded Isabella