Lord Blackwood's Valentine Ball

Lord Blackwood's Valentine Ball Novella Chapters 1-3

PROLOGUE

She never told her love,

But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,

Feed on her damask cheek: she pin'd in thought,

And, with a green and yellow melancholy,

She sat like Patience on a monument,

Smiling at grief.

Viola, from Twelfth Night (Act II, Scene IV) by William Shakespeare

CHAPTER ONE

“Lord Blackwood is giving a Valentine Ball? And you are invited?” Mrs. Henrietta Paisley widened her bulbous blue eyes at Patience. “How marvellous! What a romantic and thrilling idea. Let me see that.”

She snatched the gilt-edged invitation from Patience and squinted at it. “Oh, I can’t read this. Wait, where are my spectacles? Although I never confess to needing them, so you’re not to tell anyone.” She rummaged in her capacious reticule for her spectacles and then peered at the invitation card. An excited expression spread across her plump, florid face as she studied the embossed crest, the bold handwriting, and the elaborate signature.

“Well, I’m sure his secretary wrote this out, but this is his lordship’s own signature. Lord Blackwood.” She gave a sigh of pleasure. “Look at these flourishes and loops. So…so regal! Just what one would expect from a member of the nobility.”

Patience gave an inward sigh. Henrietta meant well. She had been Mama’s oldest and dearest friend. They had attended Miss Pringle’s Seminary for Young Ladies during their youth and had maintained a close friendship until Mama’s death a year ago. The childless, widowed, and socially well-connected Henrietta Paisley considered herself in charge of Patience’s life upon her friend’s death, in loco parentis as it were. Sometimes her efforts were interfering, despite her good intentions. Henrietta Paisley was also a self-proclaimed matchmaker, having successfully united no less than fifteen couples in the last two years. Pairing up young ladies with eligible men had become an entertaining diversion for her and she was good at it. Her success lay in her shrewd assessment of the suitability of potential suitors. Several anxious mamas had already engaged Henrietta in intense discussion on the possibility of Viscount So-and-So or Sir Such-and-Such or even Lord What’s-His-Name proposing to their hopeful debutante daughters.

Henrietta laid down the invitation. Her expression indicated how resolutely she was bent on a romantic mission. Like it or not, Patience was Henrietta’s next target for Cupid’s arrows. Her face glowed with an emotion larger than excitement. Elation was perhaps the best description. Or, maybe triumph was even better.

“Patience Susan Cherwell, this is your golden opportunity, and if you don’t succeed, I swear I’ll…” She cast about for an aptly dramatic promise “I’ll eat my best bonnet right here in this parlour!”

Patience shook her head. “I fail to grasp your meaning, Henrietta. My golden opportunity for what?”

Henrietta gave an explosive squawk of frustration and disbelief. “Why, you silly girl! To secure Lord Blackwood for yourself! What else do you think I mean?”

“But I thought—”

With ruthless disregard for Patience’s opinion, Henrietta interrupted her by launching into an unexpected panegyric. “He is the perfect man for you!” In a gesture familiar to Patience, Henrietta clasped her lace-mittened hands together somewhere in the region of where she imagined the heart pounded in the human breast and sighed.

“In fact, he would be the perfect man for any woman with a grain of romance in her soul. Oh, he is a man who can stir a woman’s emotions and cause such flutterings in the female bosom.” She frowned at Patience. “I say this without intending the slightest slur on the memory of my beloved Cedric, God rest his soul, who was the most wonderful husband any woman could ever wish for.”