Promise Me Tomorrow

It was a glittering, extravagant scene, made even more vivid and beautiful by the wealth of jewels that gleamed at the women’s ears and throats and wrists, a bounty of diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds, as well as the subtler shimmer of pearls. The men were uniformly clad in the black-and-white elegance of evening wear, but the women’s gowns covered a vibrant spectrum of colors. Silk, satin and lace abounded, and—despite the warmth of the August evening—even velvet. Looking at the rose silk of the woman in line before them, the peacock-blue satin trimmed with black lace of the woman in front of her, and the white tissue embroidered with gold thread that adorned their hostess, Marianne began to wonder if her own simply cut ice-blue silk evening dress was elegant enough. It had done very well in Bath, but here in London…

Marianne glanced around, hoping to assure herself that she was not out of place here. She stopped as her gaze fell upon a man leaning against one of the slender columns of the ballroom, only twenty feet away from her. He was watching her, and when she noticed him, he did not glance away embarrassedly, as most would have. He continued to gaze at her steadily in a way that was most rude.

He was tall and lean, with the broad shoulders and muscled thighs of a man who had spent much of his life on horseback. His hair, cut rather short and slightly tousled, was light brown, streaked golden here and there by the sun. His eyes, too, were gold, and hooded, reminding her of a hawk. His cheekbones were high, his nose straight and narrow; it was an aristocrat’s face, handsome, proud and slightly bored, as if all the world did not hold enough to retain his jaded interest.

The man’s gaze unsettled her. She felt unaccountably warm, and it was hard, somehow, to move her eyes away from him. He smiled at her, a slow, sensuous smile that set off a strange, tingling reaction somewhere in the area of her stomach. Marianne started to smile back, but she caught herself in time, remembering what he was and how she felt about his sort. Besides, a genteel widow did not stand about smiling at strangers. So she kept her face as cool and blank as she could, and raised one eyebrow disdainfully, then turned pointedly away from him.

Their hostess was only two people away from her now, expertly greeting her guests and sliding them along. She greeted Mrs. Willoughby with no sign of recognition on her face, then nodded to Marianne with the same polite, measured warmth. It was such a huge party that Marianne was sure there were many people there whom Lady Batterslee barely knew, which made it a perfect opportunity for Marianne, and silently she thanked her companion for inviting her to come along despite their casual acquaintance.

There were so many people, it was difficult to work their way through the crowd. Marianne did not see how anyone could find room to dance to the orchestra gamely playing at the other end of the room. Finally they reached the wall and were able to find two empty chairs. Mrs. Willoughby plopped down in one, fanning her flushed face, and looked around with all the enthusiasm of a career social climber.

“There’s Lady Bulwen—I’m surprised she’s here. They say she is only a step away from debtor’s prison, you know.” She shook her head, clucking her tongue in apparent sympathy, then plunged on, “That’s Harold Upsmith. Do you know him? An excellent gentleman, everything that’s proper—not like his brother James. An absolute wastrel, that one.”

“Indeed,” Marianne murmured. It took little effort on her part to keep the conversation going, only an occasional nod or comment to assure her companion that she was listening. It was her great good fortune that Mrs. Willoughby was a perfect combination of social climber and inveterate gossip. Before this evening was through, she would know as much about the ton as if she had been a member for years.

After a few moments, however, her attention was distracted by the imperious tones of a woman sitting to her right. “Don’t slouch, Penelope. And do try to look as if you’re having a good time. It is a party, you know, not a deathwatch.”

Curious, Marianne glanced to the side. The voice belonged to a large woman clad in an unfortunate shade of purple. Her bosom jutted forward like the prow of a ship, and her chin had a matching forward thrust. She, too, was watching the crowd like a predatory bird, interspersing comments about this or that eligible bachelor with commands to her young female companion. The girl in question sat between Marianne and the older woman, a plain slip of a thing in a white dress. White, Marianne knew, was considered the only appropriate color for an unmarried girl at a ball, but it was not a color that did anything for this particular young woman, merely emphasizing the colorlessness of her face. Nor was her appearance enhanced by the glass spectacles that perched on her nose, hiding her best features—a pair of warm brown eyes.

“Yes, Mama,” Penelope murmured in a toneless voice, her fingers clenched together in her lap. She reached up to adjust the spectacles that sat on her nose, and her fan, lying in her lap, slid off and hit the floor, bouncing over and landing on Marianne’s toe.

“Really, Penelope, do try not to be so clumsy. There’s nothing so unattractive as a clumsy female.”

“I’m sorry, Mama.” Penelope flushed with embarrassment and bent toward her fan, but Marianne had already retrieved it.

She handed it to Penelope with a smile, sympathy for the girl rising inside her. It must be bad enough to be sitting here against the wall, not being asked to dance, without having her mother carping at her the whole time.

“Thank you,” Penelope murmured softly, giving Marianne a shy smile.

“You’re quite welcome. A dreadful crush, isn’t it?”

Penelope nodded emphatically, causing the light to glint off her spectacles. “Yes. I hate it when there are so many people.”

“I’m Mrs. Cotterwood. Marianne Cotterwood,” Marianne told her. It was not proper to introduce oneself, Marianne knew, but she suspected that Penelope was not the sort to mind. Others, like Penelope’s mother, would meet such boldness with a rebuff.

But Penelope smiled and said, “I am Penelope Castlereigh. It’s very nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine. You must think me bold to introduce myself, but in truth, I find it excessively silly to sit here not talking because there is no one around at the moment who knows both of us to introduce us.”

“You are absolutely right,” Penelope agreed. “I would have introduced myself if I had more nerve. I’m afraid I am the veriest coward.”

At that moment, Penelope’s mother, who had been droning away the past few minutes, finally realized that her daughter was not listening to her and turned to see what she was doing. At seeing the girl engaged in conversation with a strange woman, she scowled and brought her lorgnette up to her eyes to peer disapprovingly at Marianne.

“Penelope! What are you doing?”

Penelope jumped a little, and a guilty look flashed across her face. She turned back to the older woman, saying brightly, “I was just talking to Mrs. Cotterwood. I met her at Nicola’s last week.”

Quickly, before her mother could inquire more deeply into the matter, she introduced Marianne and her mother to each other. Her mother, Marianne learned, was Lady Ursula Castlereigh.

On the other side of Marianne, Mrs. Willoughby leaned forward, saying with delight, “Oh, do you know Lady Castlereigh, Mrs. Cotterwood? Mrs. Willoughby, Lady Castlereigh. If you remember, we met at Mrs. Blackwood’s fete, oh, sometime last Season.”

“Indeed?” Lady Ursula replied in a voice that would have daunted a less determined woman than Mrs. Willoughby.

“Yes, indeed. I admired the dress you were wearing.” Mrs. Willoughby launched into a detailed description of a gown, popping up and moving around the others to plant herself in the empty chair beside Lady Ursula.

Marianne seized the opportunity to escape both women. “Shall we take a stroll around the room, Miss Castlereigh?”

Penelope brightened. “That would be lovely.”

It suited Marianne’s purpose to get away from the chattering Mrs. Willoughby, but she knew that she had proposed the stroll partly to help out Penelope, as well. Penelope, despite her social status, touched a responsive chord in Marianne. She could not help but feel for the poor girl, obviously shy, and just as obviously dominated by her dragon of a mother.

Penelope visibly relaxed as they moved away from Lady Ursula’s vicinity. Marianne glanced around them as they walked, automatically checking the room. There were few of the valuable items she sought in the large, open room. The only access to the doors was a series of long windows, open to alleviate the heated stuffiness created by the crowd of people. Marianne maneuvered Penelope in the direction of the windows.

“Ah,” she said. “It’s much more pleasant here.”

“Oh, yes,” Penelope agreed, following her. “The fresh air feels good.”

Marianne casually looked out. They were on the second floor, looking down at the small garden in the back of the house. There were no convenient trees or trellises nearby. Still, Marianne cast a professional eye over the window and its lock before she guided Penelope away.

As they walked, Marianne felt an odd prickling at the base of her neck that told her she was being watched. She turned her head, scanning the room, and after a moment she saw him—the same man who had been watching her earlier. As she looked at him, he sketched a bow to her. Warmth flooded her, a sensation she was unused to. She told herself it was embarrassment.

“Penelope…” She took her companion’s arm. “Who is that man?”

“What man?” Penelope stopped and looked around.

“Over there.” Marianne indicated him with her head.

Penelope adjusted her glasses, looking in the direction of Marianne’s gaze. “Oh. Do you mean Lord Lambeth?”

“The good-looking wretch with a superior smile on his face.”

Penelope smiled faintly at the description. “Yes. That’s Justin. He’s the Marquess of Lambeth.”

“He keeps looking at me. It’s most disconcerting.”

“I should think you would be used to men looking at you,” Penelope responded, grinning, looking at her companion. With her red hair, vivid blue eyes and creamy white skin, Marianne Cotterwood was stunning. Penelope had noticed her almost as soon as she had entered the ballroom. Marianne’s dress, though simpler than most here tonight, was the perfect setting for her beauty, showing off her tall, voluptuous figure; she had no need for the frills and bows that many women added to their clothes.

“Thank you for the compliment—I think.” Marianne smiled back at her. “But that is the second time I’ve caught him staring at me in the rudest way. And he doesn’t seem at all embarrassed by being caught doing it. He just stands there looking….”

“Arrogant?” Penelope supplied. “That’s not surprising. Lambeth’s quite arrogant. Of course, I suppose he has every reason to be. Everyone fawns over him, especially giddy young girls looking to marry.”

“He’s a catch?”

Penelope chuckled. “I should say so.” She looked at her curiously. “Do you mean you have not heard of him?”

“I’m afraid not. I have spent the past few years in Bath, you see, living rather quietly—since my husband’s death.”

“Of course. I’m sorry. I don’t suppose you would have heard of him. Bath is not the sort of place Lambeth frequents. Not exciting enough.”