A Bride Of Honor. Ruth Axtell Morren

inner workings of the clock. What should have been a simple procedure turned into a chore. Snatches from the conversation he’d just had with Miss Phillips kept shifting his focus.

      Had the Lord brought this young lady for him to disciple in some fashion? Her questions about the scriptures seemed genuine.

      How would he be able to disregard the yearnings this young lady stirred in his heart and focus solely on her spiritual well-being? He pondered the brass cone-shaped gear in his hand.

      Likely his sister was right. Miss Phillips would have no time for an evening Bible study. A girl’s coming out was a major event in her life. How could an evening studying scriptures at a modest parsonage compete with a ball at one of the great houses of Mayfair?

      Yet the shimmer of tears that had glistened in her eyes had been genuine. How he’d longed in that moment to offer comfort.

      His fingers tightened on the gear. He was a simple clergyman. This young lady was as far removed from his sphere as a French gilded clock was from the parsonage. He must banish such foolish thoughts of her immediately, before they caused him any trouble.

      Crowded between the other young ladies, Lindsay could hardly breathe. Her fan did little but move the stifling air in front of her.

      Had she only been at the Middletons’ ball three-quarters of an hour? The wall she stood against was jammed with similarly dressed young ladies, all in white or pale-colored high-waisted gowns, tiny reticules and silk fans clutched in their gloved hands. Hair was curled around faces shiny from the heat of the room. Wall sconces only added to the pressing warmth.

      The music from the orchestra on the balcony above them reverberated through the long ballroom. Squares of four couples each along the center length of the ballroom carried out the steps of the quadrille. Lindsay had begged to be excused from this set. Her father had gone to get her some refreshment in the meantime.

      “My, what a turnout.” Beatrice waved her own fan in front of her, her eyes on the guests promenading about the crowded room.

      With a sigh of relief, Lindsay spotted her father making his way toward them with cups of punch in his hands. She watched him proudly, noting how handsome he was. In his mid-forties, his dark blond hair had hardly any gray in it and was only just beginning to recede a little at the edges of his forehead. His carriage was erect and he was slim compared to most gentlemen of his age.

      She marveled that he had accompanied them this evening. Normally, he was content to let her attend every social engagement with only Beatrice.

      This evening, however, her father had not only made the effort to don his black evening tailcoat and white satin waistcoat, but he’d inspected her gown as well, making her change from pink tulle to white organdy lace over a blue satin underskirt.

      As he came closer now, Lindsay noticed a tall, young gentleman following closely behind him. She waited, intrigued. Her father had acted mysteriously all through dinner, alluding to the wonderful time that awaited her at the Middletons’ ball.

      “Here you go, my dear.” Her father handed her a glass of ratafia. He passed the other one to Beatrice.

      He turned to the gentleman at his side. “Lindsay, I’d like you to meet Jerome Stokes. Jerry, this is my daughter, Lindsay Phillips, and her mother’s cousin, Miss Yates.”

      Lindsay studied the man before her. His hair was dark brown, almost ebony, and arranged in a thick wave away from his brow. His eyes, heavy lidded, were a pale green. They met hers head-on, causing her to feel appraised. To her further dismay, his gaze roamed slowly over her face before descending. He paused at her bosom, causing a flush to cover her exposed skin. She felt like a specimen at the Royal Society.

      Before she could think of a proper setdown, he took her hand in his, bringing it up to his lips. His hair let off a scent of cologne as he bowed. “Enchanté,” he murmured.

      The French word sounded affected on his fleshy lips.

      He was quite tall and she had to crane her neck to look into his face once he straightened. He stood a few inches too close, and she felt hemmed in, with no escape. His evening clothes fit impeccably, a navy coat with matching knee breeches and white silk stockings. A white satin waistcoat hugged a powerful torso, and a high white cravat enfolded his neck completely, falling in beautiful folds. He reminded her of pictures she had seen of the famous dandy, Beau Brummell. Yet, his appearance left her cold.

      She half curtsied, wishing he’d let her hand go. At last he did so to greet her cousin. Then he addressed her once again. “May I have the pleasure of this dance?”

      Her father smiled with unaccustomed warmth. “By all means. Show Mr. Stokes what an accomplished dancer you are.”

      Hiding her disinclination to step onto the dance floor with this stranger, she gave Mr. Stokes her hand again. “Yes, Papa.”

      “Go on and enjoy yourselves. Get acquainted.”

      It would soon be over, she told herself. She was used to dancing with all sorts of gentlemen and didn’t know why this particular one caused such an immediate antipathy in her.

      They followed the intricate steps of the country dance at first, briefly touching hands and circling around other pairs of dancers for the first few moments. Then, as they stood and watched the lead couple execute a turn, he said, “Your father did not exaggerate your beauty. I thought surely he had overstated it, as parents are wont to do when conversing of their offspring.”

      She frowned at his dispassionate, almost scientific tone. Was this why her father admired him so? Was he a fellow amateur scientist?

      Suddenly she thought of Reverend Hathaway’s warm yet almost shy speech. How different he was from this man. “If you know my father at all, you know he is a man of precise words.”

      He chuckled. “I flatter myself that I know your father better than most people, and what you say is true. He is a man given to accurate observation.”

      Her dislike grew at the familiar way he spoke of her father. Her father had never mentioned Mr. Stokes to her.

      She was relieved when they began to dance again and had a brief respite from talking. But when they came together to execute a turn, he said, “When your father spoke of your beauty, I thought, he has lost his objectivity when it comes to his only offspring. His judgment cannot be trusted.”

      She pressed her lips together, unwilling to offend her father’s acquaintance, although her annoyance was deepening.

      “He has spoken much about you.” His warm breath grazed her ear, and she stiffened. “You are like an exquisite Dresden vase, Miss Phillips.” He was standing inches from her, his hand holding hers and guiding it over her head, to turn her about. She couldn’t help looking up at him as he said these words.

      A shiver went through her. Not of pleasure, but almost of fear at the predatory look in his eyes. She felt like one of the reptiles her father kept in jars along the shelves of his library, their spotted and scaled bodies curled inside the apothecary jars, helpless to escape, preserved for all time.

      She pushed aside the image as she moved away from Mr. Stokes in time to the music. Her father could not possibly be considering this man as a suitor for her!

      When the dance ended, Mr. Stokes took her by the elbow and led her back to her father.

      As they approached him, her father rubbed his hands together and smiled. “There now, how did you two get on?” Without giving her a chance to reply, he turned to Stokes. “Didn’t I tell you the two of you would suit?”

      “You did indeed.”

      “And did I not tell you she was beautiful?”

      “A diamond of the first water,” he murmured, and she could feel his gaze on her.

      “She has had every advantage. She will make an admirable wife. Any gentleman here tonight would consider himself fortunate if she accepted his suit.”

      “Papa!”