Page 29 of Dropping the Ball

Dear Alden,

No.

Yours, Uncle Gerald

Amonth had passed since the beautiful night Alden had spent with Bernadette, and although he had tried everything he could think of, from writing multiple times to his uncle, appealing to his cousin Cedric, to requesting that his cousin Waldorf use his questionable connections in whatever secretive business he undertook for King Swithin to discover more about Bernadette’s marriage, it had all come to naught. Bernadette was wed to another, and it appeared as though she would remain so.

“Is there a footman about who could help bring our trunks into the house?” an irritated Lady Chessington called from just inside the open front door of Lyndhurst Grove midway through the Friday morning before Alden’s ball.

Alden had just stepped out of the front parlor, where two other matrons and their marriageable daughters were being served tea. He did his best to maintain a cheerful smile, but seeing as the hordes had begun to descend at dawn, he was already taxed beyond his usual limit for company.

“Ah, welcome to my home, Lady Chessington,” he said, extending a hand to greet the grey-haired woman as a gentleman should greet guests.

Lady Chessington offered her hand for Alden to kiss distractedly. “You are aware, are you not, Lord Alden, that a queue of carriage is forming on your drive.”

Alden winced as he straightened from bowing over the woman’s hand. “I was not aware.”

Lady Chessington hummed disapprovingly. “Well, that can soon be rectified. Have your footman come help mine with the trunks, and greet my lovely daughter, Elaina.”

Alden was too rattled with all the details he needed to remember for the weekend to put Lady Chessington off.Bernadette had spent the entire evening the day before instructing him on who was to arrive and when, what their connections and social standing were, and where each of the parties should be shown as soon as they arrived.

She’d spent the last three weeks schooling him on proper manners and decorum when it came to interacting with young ladies who were being considered for the position of his bride as well, though too many of those lessons had descended into guilt-ridden kisses and breathless embraces when neither of them could control themselves.

Try as both of them did to maintain a cordial, cool distance from each other, they’d slipped into libidinous flirtation and ill-advised passion on more than one occasion. At least they had both had enough forbearance to prevent any recurrence of the ultimate passion they’d experienced in Bernadette’s bed that one night. Alden was certain nothing irreversible had come out of that night either, as enough time had passed, and from what Smythe had whispered to him on the sly, Bernadette had been indisposed in a certain feminine way that had required some delicate laundering.

The passion and affection were still there, however. Even when they could control themselves, they were prone to falling into long moments of silence as they simply gazed at each other, hoping and wishing that things were different. Bernadette had written to Lord Hethersett the morning after their night, explaining everything, but as of that morning, she had received no reply at all. It was, as she informed him, highly unusual and deeply worrying, as the man had been a regular and frequent correspondent until that point.

But Hethersett was the least of his worries that Friday morning.

“I say. Who has left their carriage unattended in such a spot?” a gentleman that Alden just barely recognized as LordWeybridge called out as he walked up the increasing line of stopped carriages to the terrace in front of Lyndhurst’s front door as Alden stepped out of the house, Lady Chessington behind him.

Alden narrowed his eyes at the handsome young buck in his expertly tailored suit, his Hessian boots shining. Had Bernadette invited other eligible young men to his ball along with the ladies he was meant to choose a bride from? He simply could not remember.

“That is my carriage,” another matronly woman answered, stepping out from around the carriage in question, a pretty but pale young woman right behind her.

“Lady Laura. So good to see you,” Alden said, switching directions to greet the new guest. “And this must be your daughter, Lady Vera.”

The pale young lady brightened and batted her eyelashes as Alden greeted her mother, then her. She giggled, hiding her face against one shoulder, as Alden bowed over her hand.

“Stop messing about with the other ladies and see to our trunks,” Lady Chessington interrupted the introduction.

“Yes, of course,” Alden said, his smile tighter than ever.

The party surrounding the ball had barely begun, and already Alden was overwrought. He felt pulled in a dozen different directions as he left Lady Laura and Lady Vera to see if Smythe or any of the footmen were nearby.

“Here, your lordship,” Smythe called out to him, evidently seeing the distress in Alden’s face, as he came out from behind yet another of the carriages.

Alden nodded to his guests, then rushed to meet Smythe and one of the new footmen, whom Bernadette had hired specifically for the ball weekend, off to the side of the gravel.

“What in the devil’s name is going on here?” he asked Smythe in a low voice, letting any pretense of being glad to see his guests vanish.

“We’re up to our eyeballs in arrivals, my lord,” Smythe answered with his usual haphazard excitement.

“Were the arrivals not specifically planned by Bernadette so that we would not have a queue at the door?” Alden asked.

Smythe shoved a hand through his thick hair. “Only, it’s not just the ones Lady Bernadette invited,” he said. “I reckon at least a third of these are here uninvited.”

“Not uninvited,” Alden said, glancing back to where Lord Weybridge was now smiling and flirting with a delighted Lady Vera. “They were invited by Lady Gladys.”

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