A Most Improper Proposal. Molly Wishlade Ann

being kept busy by our neighbours across the channel, amongst others’ – he smiled conspiratorially – ‘but Britain will always come out on top, old chap.’

      James bit his tongue, not wanting a political war of words so soon after his return. He was as happy as the next man at Napoleon’s recent defeat but that did not mean that he agreed with all of British foreign policy. Besides, he had more pressing matters to deal with so he forced out, ‘Of course, Lord Castlereagh. I’m sure you’re right.’

      ‘How did you enjoy your travels?’

      ‘Very pleasant, thank you. It did me good to get away.’

      The musicians in the balcony changed pace, moving to the triple metre of the waltz. The lively rhythm added to palpable buzz in the air.

      ‘Good, good, glad to hear it.’

      They both watched as groups of ladies and gentlemen took to the floor.

      ‘I see that the Almack’s uniform has not altered during my absence.’ James gestured at the dancers where the men were identical in their breeches, waistcoats and jackets. They reminded him of magpies.

      ‘No, old chap,’ Lord Castlereagh replied gruffly. ‘The patronesses would never accept that.’

      James felt Lord Castlereagh’s curious eyes upon his face.

      ‘But the ladies look good, eh, James?’

      They did, he couldn’t deny it as he eyed the dazzling rainbow of jewels and evening gowns. A seasoned eye could easily distinguish between the married women and the debutantes, because the younger ladies were dressed in creams and pastel colours whilst the more mature and experienced amongst the gentler sex wore darker, richer shades of crimson, navy and black. The pure colours sported by the debutantes implied that they were themselves pure and innocent but every man of the ton was aware that it was not always the case.

      ‘We have had some delightful debutantes this year,’ the politician continued. ‘If I were a younger man… and single of course.’ He laughed and slapped James hard on the back. ‘But you…’

      James’ nostrils flared. He knew where this conversation was heading.

      ‘I have just returned to England, my lord, and I need to reacquaint myself with my lands and such before I even think of such matters.’

      He scanned the room for his aunt but he was unable to spot the lemon of her dress or the pink of her companion’s. If he could just locate Miss Adams, then Aunt Lydia would not be far away.

      ‘Well, do not leave it too long, James, or you might find yourself in the same predicament as my darling wife and me.’

      James looked at the man’s raised eyebrows and nodded; Lord Castlereagh referred to their childless marriage.

      ‘Of course, my lord,’ James inclined his head.

      ‘Ah, there’s the Earl of Liverpool.’ Lord Castlereagh pointed at the prime minister. ‘I shall take my leave of you now, James.’

      As the gentleman walked away, James allowed his eyes to perform another quick scan of the ballroom. He could not see Miss Adams and he wondered why she was not on the dance floor. He realised with a jolt that he wanted to see her dance, to watch as the delicate pink fabric of her dress floated around her as she waltzed across the floor, her face glowing with the exertion of the dance, not with humiliation or anger as he had previously witnessed. He wanted to see how she behaved when she relaxed and allowed that cold façade to fall away.

      If it was a façade.

      And if her clothes were to fall away too, then…

      But what of these foolish fancies? He had been away too long and the first English rose he had laid eyes upon had captured his interest, that was all it was and he must refrain from making more of it.

      In her coldness he had lost nothing. After all, the ballroom was full of delightful young ladies ‒ all of whom, he was sure, would readily return his attention. He needed no approval from a cold-hearted wench. Though he could not easily fit the idea of her being cold with the glimpse of vulnerability he had spotted. And such vulnerability might well have caused her to erect a protective layer about her person.

      ‘Lord Crawford?’ Lady Castlereagh had placed her hand on his arm, her close proximity causing her heavy rose perfume to wash over him. ‘Are you searching for someone?’

      James shook his head before replying. ‘No, not at all, Lady Castlereagh. I was just marvelling at how popular the waltz has become at Almack’s. Why, but a few years ago, it would have caused a scandal.’

      The lady chuckled in response.

      ‘It is true, Lord Crawford but we must move with the times. Though we like to avoid any whiff of a scandal here at Almack’s, we must maintain our reputation as a fashionable establishment, and currently the waltz is fashionable. Now, look at my husband.’

      James did as she bade him and saw that Lord Castlereagh was deep in conversation with the Earl of Liverpool. The two politicians stood so close that their heads almost touched and whatever topic they were discussing clearly had them impassioned.

      ‘He will be there for hours debating how best to conquer America or at least how to improve the trade routes. Let us take a turn around the room so that you can become reacquainted with our members and we can have a little tête-à-tête, for so much has happened in your absence.’

      James allowed the lady to take his arm and watched as she smiled at her husband before they set off. The look that passed between the Castlereaghs made his heart lurch; it bore the understanding of a married couple secure in their relationship, in their mutual understanding and their knowledge of each other. He was not a close acquaintance of theirs but having known them for some time, he knew that they were devoted to one another. Though they had no children of their own, there was a bond between them that James could not fathom, and he envied their closeness as he witnessed it from his own island of isolation. It had been so long since he had been warmed by tenderness.

      ‘My dear James,’ Lady Castlereagh spoke quietly as they strolled round the perimeter of the ballroom. ‘You have been away for a long time.’

      ‘Indeed I have.’

      ‘What is it… five years?’

      ‘Yes, Lady Castlereagh.’

      ‘Come now, James, call me by my Christian name.’ She glanced at him then looked away again, smiling and waving at acquaintances.

      ‘Of course, Amelia.’

      ‘You left following such tragedy.’ She turned back to him and squeezed his arm gently.

      James inclined his head, well aware that the lady was trying to encourage him to provide her with more details. He felt the old pain rising in his throat.

      ‘I never had the opportunity to express my sympathy, James.’

      He raised his eyes to her face and found only sincerity.

      ‘Thank you.’ He cleared his throat.

      ‘To lose as much as you did in such a short space of time is dreadful. I am sure that your grief was overwhelming.’

      ‘It was, Amelia. But time heals.’ He bit his tongue at the old adage.

      ‘Of course, James. Of course it does.’ She nodded vigorously.

      James registered her desire to convince herself, suspecting that she grieved still for her own lack of offspring.

      They strolled the perimeter of the room and James listened to the powerful lady’s stories about the social movements amongst le bon ton and the recent births, deaths and marriages. It seemed that the lady had a detailed érésumé of everyone in the room, in London and mayhap all of England. He allowed her to regale him with her gossip in order to try to forget, for a moment, his own sad past.

      ‘See there,