Desperate Measures (A Regency Short Story)

have never singled out any woman, publicly or privately, so if I am seen acting the mooncalf over you, it will certainly be noticed. Ah, the dance is about to begin. Pay attention, my girl. Observe my uncanny ability to make everyone here believe I am madly in love with you."

  And he did. He even made her believe it. He never took his eyes off her, except for those moments when the steps required him to link arms or hands with another man's partner. At all other times, his gaze never left her. Sometimes it was so intense, locked so ardently with hers that she almost felt as though they were alone on the dancefloor.

  It was all perfectly glorious. Except, of course, that it was not real. He was merely playacting, and doing a splendid job of it.

  When the second dance of the set was about to begin, Geoffrey led her out of the line. "Parched, did you say? Then by all means allow me to procure you a restorative glass of chilled champagne." Lowering his voice, he said, "Let us find the refreshment room and make our plans for the rest of the evening."

  Ever the proper gentleman, Geoffrey first located her mother and told her where he was taking Lydia. She looked puzzled – it was the first set, after all, and had so far not been lively enough to have worked up much of a thirst – but nodded her approval. One small anteroom had been set aside for light refreshments, and as it was still early in the evening, it was almost empty of guests. Geoffrey led her to a table in a corner, then flagged down a footman who brought them glasses of champagne. She had not often partaken of the pale sparkly wine, and smiled when the bubbles tickled her nose, which made Geoffrey laugh. She had been too nervous to eat before the ball, so even a few sips had her feeling slightly giddy. Maybe the champagne would help her get through this odd evening, allow her to enjoy the ridiculous situation instead of walking around in alternate states of confusion and panic.

  "How am I doing so far?" he asked.

  "You are playing the part beautifully, Mr. Danforth."

  "Excellent. Has he noticed?"

  "Who?"

  "The man I am trying to make jealous, of course."

  "Oh. I … I am not certain."

  "I say, Lydia," he said, his brow furrowed into a frown, "you had better tell me who the chap is. How am I to make sure he sees me mooning after you? In fact, I believe this whole scheme is doomed to failure unless I know its object. So, tell me. What lucky man has stolen your heart?"

  Suddenly the bubbles in her stomach had nothing to do with champagne. Who was she to name? Should she simply look him straight in the eye and tell him that he is the one he is supposed to make jealous? That he is the one whose attention she wanted so badly that she had resorted to such desperate measures?

  No, she couldn't possibly confess the truth. It would be too mortifying for both of them. But what to do? She must name someone. The doors of the anteroom were open so that she could see into the ballroom. Just then, she caught sight of the infamous rake Lord Tennison leaning against a pillar and shamelessly leering at Lady Dunholme's impressive bosom.

  A fraction of a second later, before her brain could tell her how absurd it was and stop her from making an even greater fool of herself, she blurted his name. "Lord Tennison."

  Geoffrey's jaw dropped and he glared for a moment in wide-eyed disbelief. "Good God. You can't be serious."

  In for a penny, in for a pound. She drew herself up and said, "I'm quite serious. I find him exceedingly charming. And handsome."

  He stared at her as though she'd lost her mind. Which wasn't far from the truth. "But you have no idea what he is, my girl. Trust me, Lydia, he is not the man for you."

  "Oh, really?"

  "Really. He is a … a …"

  "A rake. I know. That's what makes him so" – she smiled dreamily and gave a little shiver – "exciting."

  Geoffrey narrowed his eyes. "Exciting, eh? That's what you're looking for?"

  "Yes, why not?"

  "I don't know. It just doesn't sound like you, Lydia."

  "Perhaps, sir, you do not know me as well as you think. Besides, who wants a dull, respectable gentleman who offers little more than a lifetime of tedium and propriety? A woman wants a man who makes her feel …"

  "Desirable?"

  Heat rose in her cheeks, but she soldiered on. "Yes, desirable. Is that so wrong?"

  A corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Not a bit. Tennison certainly knows how to do that, as he's been openly desiring women for years. He is quite a bit older than you, of course, but I don't suppose that signifies."

  "I like a mature man."

  "I do not doubt it." The twitch became a full-blown grin. Was he mocking her? Did he guess that Lord Tennison was a ruse?

  "Well, my girl, you have given me a formidable assignment. However, I shall do my best to see that Tennison not only notices you, but is overcome with jealousy. He will be falling at your feet by the end of this evening, I assure you."

  Oh dear. She wondered if she was in over her head, but was not inclined to turn craven just yet.

  "Here's what I will do," Geoffrey said, keeping his voice low even though there were only a few other people in the anteroom with them, and no one close enough to overhear. Did he do that deliberately? Did he employ that low, smoky tone because he knew it unnerved her? "I have been seen dancing with you. Now I will be seen not dancing with anyone else. I shall linger about making calf's eyes at you while you dance with other men. And I shall not dance at all until the supper dance, when I shall lead you out again. Remember, you must save that dance for me. We'll be cozy over supper and make sure Tennison sees. Does that sound like a good plan to you?"

  "It sounds brilliant. I will watch for those calf's eyes."

  His expression softened, his eyebrows lifted, and his eyes filled with a sort of woebegone yearning. Then his shoulders sagged as he gave a heartbreaking sigh, and Lydia burst out laughing. He was the very picture of a young boy in the throes of his first infatuation. "Do not overdo it, sir, I beg you. No one would believe it of you."

  He cast off the moonstruck look and was himself again. "You think not? You think no one would believe I could fall in love?"

  "Oh, I believe you could fall in love." She pinned all her hopes on it, in fact. "But I daresay it would never be a simple schoolboy's passion with you."

  "You are quite right, my girl." He laid his hand over hers. "I am no longer a boy. It will be a much more complex experience for me. When I fall in love it will be deeply and completely and forever."

  It was her turn to sigh. How she wished she could be the object of such a love. His love.

  He rose and took Lydia's hand to help her from the chair, then kissed it. "For luck," he said, and led her back to her mother.

  For the next hour and more, Lydia danced with other gentlemen. Her mother encouraged her to accept the attentions of each of them, as it was her fondest hope to see Lydia engaged by season's end. It was, after all, her second season. One more and she would be edging closer toward bona fide spinsterhood. Frankly, if she could not have Geoffrey, she would as soon be a spinster. It was not in her nature to settle for second best.

  It was a heady experience to watch Geoffrey gaze at her across the room as though he could not tear his eyes from her. She could at least pretend it was real, couldn’t she? Or was it worse to know what it would feel like to have him look at her with love in his eyes than never to have known it at all? Was she setting herself up for disappointment and heartbreak?

  Others noticed Geoffrey's obvious attention. Her friend Daphne Hughes pulled her aside and peppered her with questions, certain that Lydia was hiding something from her. Worst of all, her mother noticed. "I cannot fathom what has come over him," she said. "It's as though he suddenly realized what a beauty you are. I won't quibble over it, though. He'd be a fine catch for you, my dear. With your glossy dark curls and his golden hair, you will make a stunning couple."

  Her maternal hopes were encouraged when Geof
frey came to claim her for the supper dance – a waltz, no less. She positively beamed when he led her daughter onto the floor.

  "You might want to ease up on the calf's eyes, Mr. Danforth," she whispered. "My mother is getting ideas."

  "Is she? Well, that only plays right into our plans, does it not? If my blatant attentions are seen to meet with Mrs. Bettridge's approval, then we have Tennison exactly where we want him: very much aware that another man desires you. Look, he has just led out Mrs. Wadsworth for the waltz. Let's move a bit closer to them so he won't miss the way my rapt gaze drinks in the perfection of your bosom."

  The music began before she could respond, and soon she forgot all about his impertinence. His hand was warm at her waist, and as her hand rested upon his shoulder she could feel the strength in the muscles beneath the fine velvet of his jacket. He moved with such grace and confidence that she barely had to think about where to put her feet. His lead was sure.

  It might just be the nearest she would ever come to being held in his arms. She closed her eyes and relished the moment.

  "Tired?" he asked. "You have danced every dance. You will no doubt welcome the respite of supper."

  "Hmm," she said, meaning I will welcome any time I can spend with you, but especially twirling about the floor in your arms. She opened her eyes, looked directly into his, and hoped he might somehow read her thoughts.

  "You are playing your part very well, too, Lydia. I swear you