One Night With The Major. Bronwyn Scott

had so much hope. When we came to England, he had already made his first fortune. You were twelve and we were naïve. We thought we could throw money at our obstacles and they would dissolve. He bought this house, then the estate in the country. He sent you to Mrs Finlay’s. He gave us all the trappings of nobility. When that was not greeted with acceptance, he worked harder, made another fortune and then another. But nothing changed. I was not invited anywhere. I have not become the great hostess he wanted. He wanted London at our feet and he didn’t get it. I failed him, but he has another chance through you.’ She paused. ‘I just want you to understand why he pushes so hard.’

      ‘You shouldn’t have to justify his failings to me.’ Pavia rose from the bed. She would never be as tolerant, as forgiving, as her mother, nor would she be as accepting. ‘I’m not like you. I don’t want a marriage of convenience to a man I have to make excuses for. I want to be free. I want to go places and see things. Women can do that now, Mother. The railway is opening up travel like never before. The world is changing.’

      ‘Not really, it isn’t. Have you not heard a word I’ve said?’ Her mother sighed. ‘I love you and I want you to be safe and cared for. What about the Marquis of Chatham? He seems like a tolerant man. Perhaps Wenderly was not the best choice, but you are safe from him only if you can bring another lord up to scratch. Don’t waste this chance, Pavia. And for heaven’s sake, don’t fall for the lie these modern women portray in their pamphlets. Don’t believe for a minute that you are free. A woman alone is never free. She is in constant danger. The sooner you understand that, the better. Now, let’s talk about a gown for the Banfields’ ball.’

       Chapter Five

      The Banfields’ ball went down better with champagne. Cam grabbed another flute from a passing tray, adeptly trading his empty one for a full. It was a move he’d perfected over the last two weeks—weeks filled with entertainments like this one, each event grander than the previous as the official opening of the Season drew closer. That opening was so close now, the Banfields’ ball might be considered a soft open for the festivities that would soon be underway. Everyone who was considered anyone of importance for this Season was here tonight, doing one last dress rehearsal, the diamonds brighter, the dresses whiter, the smiles wider. Even the ballroom itself seemed to glitter with a sense of its own self-importance: chandeliers from the Venetian masters, the slim Ionic-styled columns framing the ballroom wrapped in elegant swathes of shimmering pale rose silk and white roses everywhere. Out on the dance floor, Caroline swirled by in a froth of ivory and pink skirts on the arm of a young, but financially disadvantaged viscount’s heir. She flashed Cam a smile. He raised his glass in salute and drained it, his eyes already roving the room, searching out a footman with a tray. Ah, there was one! He moved to swap flutes, a low, familiar chuckle erupting behind him.

      ‘Easy there, soldier, don’t you think you’ve had enough? You’ll be too foxed by midnight to take the lovely Miss Beaufort in for supper.’

      ‘That’s the point.’ Cam laughed, turning to shake hands with an old friend. ‘Sutton Keynes, what brings you to town? I thought you never left Newmarket these days.’

      Tall and immaculately turned out, Sutton looked far more like a gentleman tonight than the dairyman he aspired to be. One would never guess he spent his days mucking around in camel stalls. Sutton shrugged evasively. ‘I had business in town. Uncle is at it again, another one of his crazy schemes to see me wed. Best to nip that in the bud before the Season heats up.’ It was said jovially, but Sutton’s eyes were tired and his mouth was tight. Cam wondered if there was something more serious at play this time. Ever since he’d known Sutton back in school, Sutton’s uncle had been, well, odd to say the least. ‘Nothing I can’t handle, of course,’ Sutton added and then lowered his voice. ‘I heard about Fortis. I am sorry. Is that the only reason you’re home?’ He nodded towards the dance floor. ‘Miss Beaufort grows lovelier every year. Your grandfather certainly knows how to pick them.’ The mechanics of the arrangement were an open secret between Cam and his friends.

      ‘Then my grandfather can marry her.’ Cam swallowed the contents of the icy flute whole. Damn, the glasses were holding less and less as the night wore on. Either that or he was emptying them faster.

      ‘Your grandmother might have something to say about that,’ Sutton joked to take the acerbic edge off his comment, but his voice was low when he spoke again, invoking all the privacy that could be mustered in a ballroom. ‘So, is it the match you’re opposed to, old friend, or the way it came into being? Caroline is as good a choice as any and better than most.’ Sutton paused. ‘Unless, of course, you have someone else in mind?’ Images of his dark-eyed dancer swam in his mind. Cam pushed them away. He didn’t want to think of her tonight, not when such images could only serve to torture him with reminders of what he couldn’t have.

      ‘There is no one else.’ Cam infused his words with a sense of finality. He wanted to move away from this avenue of conversation, but Sutton seemed determined.

      ‘What if there was someone else? What if you went to your grandfather and said, “Here’s who I want to marry”?’ Sutton surveyed the ballroom. ‘Granted, it might be difficult this year. There’s not much to pick from in the way of outstanding catches. There’s the usual milieu of grasping gentry, baron’s daughters and such. That won’t impress your grandfather. But...’ Sutton’s voice picked up a tempo of excitement ‘...Endicott’s last daughter is out this year. I think there’s been an Endicott girl on the market every year since we came up, poor man.’

      ‘I don’t want an Endicott girl.’ Cam shook his head.

      ‘Well, there are only two viscounts’ daughters and one daughter of a marquis this year. People are saying it will be a bloodbath, the three of them will make rutting stags of us all.’ Sutton took another sip of champagne, his glass still half-full. ‘There is a Cit heiress, though.’ He raised his dark eyebrows. ‘That should make things interesting. She’s the only child of Oliver Honeysett, the tea merchant. He’s made it clear he wants a title and is willing to pay for it. His fortune would keep a man in horses for life.’ Sutton calculated everything in horses, or camels. The man should have been a Bedouin. ‘Of course, you don’t need the money, but plenty of these fellows do. It’s always interesting how that dilemma plays out,’ Sutton commented neutrally.

      Cam didn’t respond. He eyed his empty glass and sighed. ‘It doesn’t matter, Sut, they’re all the same. This year, last year, next year. They’re all the same. Every girl, every night, every ball, all the same.’ It had taken coming home to really see that. He’d been gone from London for seven years and he might as well as not been. Nothing was different. The routine was the same, even the balls were the same. He went to the same places, saw the same people. Men’s trouser legs were a bit narrower, but, other than that, sameness permeated everything and it was suffocating him like a stock tied too tight. Even now, he had the sensation that he couldn’t breathe.

      Across the room, a ripple shifted the crowd as the dance ended and couples walked back to their groups, new pairs drifting on to the floor. It was the flash of turquoise that caught his eye, bright and vibrant, and Cam’s eye riveted on it. Turquoise and dark hair, both a striking contrast against the pale palette of ivories and creams and blondeness around him. It was enough to capture his attention and to recall the memories he’d been trying to subdue all evening. ‘Who is that?’ Cam gestured with his flute. Maybe someone new to hold his interest was exactly what he needed, someone to replace his dancer in his fantasies.

      ‘You have good taste.’ Sutton followed his gaze. ‘It must be all that time abroad. That is the tea merchant’s daughter, our richest, most controversial prize of the Season.’

      ‘Because she’s a Cit? One would think we’d be more progressive these days. If we can power steam ships and run an empire, surely we can broaden our minds about social class.’ Good lord, the champagne was starting to take effect. His tongue was looser than a Covent Garden whore.

      Sutton laughed. ‘It’s all about