Dunham

Chapter 38

Celia saw Lord Tavendish as soon as he entered the ballroom, prancing like an overly decorated mare on parade. His wig was two feet high and powdered pure white, as was his face, which had at least six ornaments plastered to it. His clothing was five years out of date and outrageous even by macaroni standards. His heels were higher than fashionable and painted a shocking turquoise that did not, in any way, complement his puce brocade coat, his puce-and-chartreuse-striped breeches, or chartreuse stockings. He had double—triple—falls of lace spilling from every cloth opening on his person. He minced and fopped and tittered, waving at people with a lace kerchief, calling out to them in a falsetto that grated on her nerves.

He had a woman on his arm, a young, beautiful one coifed with an elegant white wig and understated white robe à la française embroidered with heather and green flowers. Her stomacher and underskirt were a delicate mauve, and her panniers were so narrow they were barely fashionable. Her face was only a bit powdered and she had a small diamond-shaped patch on her cheekbone just under her left eye. She glided alongside her macaroni companion serenely, as if she were the owner of the overly decorated mare, proudly walking the animal around the ring.

"God help me," Celia whispered, horrified that Bancroft had, just today, set Rafael aside to consider ... that ... as the more desirable candidate for her hand.

Rafael snorted with great disdain. Though his own high heels gleamed gold, the rest of his toilette—brown velvet coat, gold-embroidered brown brocade waistcoat, and buff doeskin breeches—was striking in its simplicity and rather too subdued to be fashionable. His cravat was not showy and his blond hair was both uncovered and unpowdered, caught back in a simple queue. No one would fault him for temperance though: By any standard, he was as beautiful as he was brilliant and could wear what he bloody well pleased.

"God help us if this is the best England's nobility has to offer," he muttered in Celia's ear.

"Ah!" came Lord Tavendish's high-pitched voice above the din. "And who have we here?"

He was talking to her, about her, around her, at her.

She kept her face perfectly expressionless as she watched him and his owner glide alongside him whilst he minced his way the last few feet toward her, her fern, and her lover.

He stopped short and looked around. "Where is someone—anyone—to introduce me to this ravishing creature?"

He was mad.

"Tavendish," Rafael said coldly.

"Ah, Covarrubias, you handsome devil, you." He winked and kissed the air at him.

Celia prayed desperately for a giant Scots corsair to burst through the doors.

"This is Miss Celia Bancroft, as you well know," Rafael said stiffly. Lord Tavendish approached her, took her hand, and bent low over it. "Curtsey to the earl, querida," Rafael rather conspicuously reminded her, as The Simpleton did have to be reminded of such things.

She did as she was bid, then looked up into a face from which gleamed the most lovely ice blue eyes she had ever seen.

It took every bit of discipline that had ever been beaten into her not to betray her shock, but knew she wouldn't be able to.

Thus, she swooned.

• • • • •

He caught her, his overly muscled arms disguised under what she now realized was a coat cut and stitched so as to make his limbs and torso appear spindly. Only a sailor could manage to mince and fop and totter on those ridiculously high turquoise heels while striding through a ballroom carrying an unconscious woman to the nearest fainting couch.